


A Certain Slant of Light

by JustGettingBy



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Ambassador Sokka, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Epistolary, Established Relationship, Firelord Zuko (Avatar), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Memory Loss, Minor Aang/Katara, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24902179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGettingBy/pseuds/JustGettingBy
Summary: Things are going well for Sokka and Zuko. The war is over, the Fire Nation is accepting Zuko as their leader, and Sokka (as the ambassador from the Southern Water Tribe) is never far away.Their life, however, comes crashing down when a training accident takes away years of Sokka's memory.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 1240
Kudos: 2906
Collections: A:tla, AtLA <50k fics to read, Best Chaptered ATLA fics, KnightsofAce Favorite Fics, Koi’s atla fic recs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set when Sokka and Zuko are in their mid-twenties. Sokka's been the ambassador for the water tribe for a few years at this point. 
> 
> Basically I wanted a Zukka amnesia!fic and couldn't find any so I said fuck it I'll do it myself.
> 
> Title is from Emily Dickinson: There's a certain Slant of light (320).

Zuko’s halfway through the most boring council meeting of his life (although he says that monthly) when he hears the commotion in the hallway. His ears perk up and turn towards the door: a clatter of footsteps, clipped shouts, and then the heavy door to the council chambers rattles as it opens. 

“Fire Lord Zuko,” says Tengo, Zuko’s personal assistant. At the same time, Ki-ha, the council’s administrator, says, “I’m sorry, My Lord, I told him the council wasn’t to be interrupted for anything less than a state emergency—”

Zuko raises his hand to stop them from snipping at each other. Tengo wouldn’t have come without a good reason (even if at this point he’d welcome any distraction). “Tengo, please speak.” 

Tengo frowns—his eyes flicker toward the rest of the council members, who stare on. “There was an accident on the training grounds,” Tengo says, his words slow and careful. “Ambassador Sokka took a fowl hit by a student and, well, he collapsed. The swordmaster said he had a fit.”

Zuko sucks in a breath; his heart jumps several beats. It’s all he can do to stay calm and seated when he wants only to sprint down the corridor and find Sokka. “Is he alright?” he asks, his vote tight and pained. The rest of the council might not know the truth (even if they suspected that Zuko and Sokka were more than close friends) but there were things that Zuko couldn’t hide from his personal assistant. 

“The ambassador is with the healers,” Tengo says. “He’s still unconscious.” 

“I see.” Zuko swallows, his throat dry. Around the edge of his vision, darkness speckles his world. “The council is dismissed.” 

Minister Sato says something in protest, but his exact words are lost on Zuko’s ringing ears. Instead, he pushes back from the table and follows Tengo through the palace corridors. Tengo, Zuko thinks, is a must’ve been sent by Agni—he always manages to know when to be discreet and when to not be. An ambassador being injured wouldn’t normally have been enough to disrupt a council meeting. There would be gossip, without a doubt. Zuko thinks it’s probably already spreading as the ministers go back to their studies and wives and staff. 

When the reach the healer’s chambers, Tengo stops outside and gestures to Zuko to go ahead. Zuko nods tersely and pushes through the door. 

Inside, Sokka lays prone on a bed. His face is slack; his mouth parts slightly. He looks like he could simply be sleeping in—a scene familiar enough to Zuko—if it wasn’t for the lump on his temple. When Zuko looks closer, he can see that under Sokka’s eyes, deep and dark bags swell. His right eye will probably swell shut from the lump, given time. 

“Fire Lord Zuko!” the healer, a slight woman named Joon with eyes wide like an owl and dark hair pulled into a tight braid, jumps into a bow. She holds a strip of bandages in her hands and behind her, on a table, is a bowl of water. However, Zuko pauses when his eyes fall on what’s next to the bowl: a red-stained towel. 

Zuko pales. “What happened?” He holds his head steady and tries to hide the panic swelling his gut and climbing up his throat. 

“He was training a student, from what I understand,” says Joon. “And a misaimed swipe of a club caught the ambassador’s temple.” Joon pauses and looks at Sokka. “But the swordmaster said when he fell, he hit his head on the flagstone of the courtyard.” 

Zuko presses his lips into a line. “Please, do what you must.”

Joon moves forward and lift’s Sokka’s head. It’s strange to see Sokka so pliant—last spring, when Sokka pulled his shoulder muscle while training, Zuko nearly had to drag him to see the healer. The only reason Sokka even agreed to use the ointment was if Zuko helped him rub it on. Sokka always insisted he was fine. And, most of the time, he was. 

Joon winds the bandages around Sokka’s head. Dully, Zuko realizes there must be a wound on the back of his skull. “Can I help?”

If Joon’s surprised by Zuko’s offer, she doesn’t show it. “The most we can do at the moment is let him rest,” she says as she lowers his head onto the pillow. “I’m afraid we won’t know the true extent of the damage until he wakes.”

Zuko nods. He can’t find the words to say how he feels. A vice has tightened around his heart, threatening to squeeze it until there’s no room left for it to beat. “Can I stay with him?”

Joon’s face flickers for a moment. “You can do as you wish, My Lord.”

Zuko doesn’t miss the tightness in her words. It’s been a long while since he spoke carelessly—he doesn’t need to ask Joon, a healer, for permission to remain in a room in his own palace. “But would it be wise to stay?”

Joon’s expression relaxes. “For a while, yes. It may do him some good to have someone talk to him. But not for too long, My Lord. He needs rest above all else.”

“Thank you,” he says, his voice cracking. 

Joon takes her bowl of water and the bloodied clothes and exits the room. 

For a moment, Zuko stands, rooted in place, staring at Sokka. Just this morning, he’d woken next to Sokka, both of them tangled in the sheets together. The warmth of his boyfriend pressed against his side was familiar and welcome. They’d gotten used to it, over the last two years; waking up together, training together, whispering to each other into the small morning hours. 

But this morning had played out like many others—Zuko rose at dawn, much to Sokka’s chagrin. 

“It’s too early,” he grumbled at Zuko and pulled the bedsheet over his head. 

Zuko had only chuckled and pressed a kiss to Sokka’s forehead before leaving to meditate. 

By the time Zuko had returned from his mediation, Sokka had already left to meet with a representative from the Northern Water Tribe before his afternoon training. 

And now they were here. Zuko moves forward and pulls the chair in the corner next to Sokka. He sits and reaches for Sokka’s hand; he traces his finger along the bones of Sokka’s fingers. His palm is rough and calloused with work—it hits perfectly into Zuko’s, as it always does. 

“Hey, Sokka,” Zuko says. It feels strange to talk to him when he’s like this, but if there’s a slight chance it could help, then Zuko will speak more than he ever had before in his life. “Um, I’m not too sure what to say to you. I was in a council meeting, you know when Tengo came bursting in.”

The walls of the room are white as the sheets on the bed. Most of the wall opposite the door is a window—warm afternoon sun filters in and, when Zuko looks out, he can see the tops of the Cherry and Apricot trees from the garden. 

“I don’t know what you managed to do to yourself, but I need you to get better, okay? Official orders from the Fire Lord.” He tries to say it as a joke, but it falls flat, even on his ears. 

The soft smell of soap over sweat hits Zuko’s nose. Sokka’s blue tunic is still slightly damp under his neck (he’d been training in the sun, after all) but Joon must’ve scrubbed his skin clean before attending to his bandages. 

Zuko sinks forward. He should’ve been there. If it wasn’t for the council, he would have been out there training too. Not just today—there are so many times when he should’ve been with Sokka, and he wasn’t. 

Zuko lets his head hand and brings Sokka’s hand to his lips and swears, swears on all that Agni’s light touches, that he’ll do better in the future. That he’ll _be there_ in the future. 

* * *

Sokka drowned. He’s sure of it. 

He would say he was dreaming, but everything hurts too much for it to be a dream. His body is heavy; it doesn’t respond when he tries to move it. His throat aches and his gut stirs. More than anything, though, the pain is in his head. Not ‘in his head’, in his head, but actually in his head. His whole brain feels like it’s been rattled. Shooting pain radiates down from the back of his skull and his right temple pulses with a sickly warmth. He tries to reach and touch it, but his arm refuses to respond. 

He’s also sure he’s drowned because he hears everything as if he’s underwater. Distant, murky voices float towards. One is the soft tone of a woman. Another voice (the more persistent one) is raspy. He hears the tones, but Sokka can’t make sense of the words. When he reaches for meaning, his head screams in protest. 

In this murky, sunken place, images and sounds flash through his head. A glowing ice burg. The high-pitched laughter of a child. Fire and flames. A red night sky and then the moon, glowing brighter than he’d ever seen before. A young, blind girl cloaked in a pale green dress. Clashing swords. Fire and flames, again. A sky full of airships. A man in red. 

The flashes soften, then. A party. A beach with black sand. Warm lantern light casting shadows over a pale body. Someone, warm and strong and smoky, pressing against his lips. A man in red, a man in red, a man in red. 

Sokka stirs. Or, at least, he tries too. 

His head has never hurt like this. The closest thing he can remember is when he was young and threw Dad’s boomerang before he’d been trained. Of course, it rounded back and thudded against his skull and Sokka spent the night in hunched over a bucket, throwing up. 

But this is different. It’s deeper and more confusing. 

“I need you to wake up,” a voice says. Whoever it is, he sounds stern. Even angry, maybe. 

Sokka shakes his head. It hurts too much to open his eyes. Wherever he is, it’s bright. And, _spirits_ , it’s warm. So warm. 

The last thing he remembers clearly is loading a canoe with Katara. Then, he’d been bundled in his parka. Had something gone wrong? Wherever he is, it’s too warm from him to be at home. 

Sokka’s eyes don’t snap open; he doesn’t bolt upright. His eyes do flutter, though, and he sees the room before him cast in the bright light of mid-day sun. 

The room is like none he’s ever seen. It’s not snow, for one thing. The walls are wooden and paper and the wall to his side is made of some sort of glass. Outside, he can see the tops of green trees. 

“Ambassador Sokka,” someone says. 

Sokka turns to see a woman, maybe twenty or so years old, with dark hair cut around her shoulders. She’s dressed in white robes, much to light for home, even in the summer. He’s not home, then. This confirms it. He tries to ask where he is, but his mouth is too dry, his muscles too stiff. 

“Don’t try to talk,” she says. She moves to his side and lifts a glass of water to his lips. Sokka drinks it gratefully—there must be dust in his throat. “Small sips,” the woman instructs. 

“You gave us all quite a scare, you know,” she continues. “You were in an accident.”

She’s not lying—Sokka’s too sore for her to be lying. But he doesn’t remember what happened or even how he got here. He doesn’t even know who this woman is—her skin is light, her eyes are a strange but beautiful shade of brown (so light they’re almost gold), and she’d called him an ambassador. 

“Do you remember what happened?”

He shakes his head.

“That can be expected, with a head injury. You’ve been out for almost a whole day.” She starts to talk about something else, about the complexities of head injuries, but Sokka’s mind drifts away. It’s too difficult to concentrate. The warm darkness is trying to pull him under again. 

“There’s someone waiting to talk to you,” the woman says. “He’s very eager.”

 _Look around_ , something in his head urges. _Make sense of it all_. 

Warriors, Sokka knows, can’t afford to be complacent. Even if they are warm and tired. 

He takes in his surroundings, the way his dad taught him to while hunting. He might not be out in the tundra, but the skills still apply. He’s not home, he knows this. It’s hot, even inside, so he must be far from home. The woman said someone wanted to talk to him—why would that be? And who was she anyway, in this strange, white room with a red symbol over the door—

Sokka’s heart skips. Heat. The woman. The style of the room. The _red flame_ symbol over the door. Spirits, he’d been so dull. Sokka tries to stand, tries to fight the heaviness in his limbs. 

“Please,” the woman says, “relax before you hurt yourself.”

Sokka sits and tries to stand. He needs to get out of here, before anything else. His aching mind races as he tries to plot his escape. What’s waiting for him on the other side of the door?

“Sit down,” the woman says sternly. She reaches for his shoulder to guide him back to the bed. Sokka tries to throw her off, but his movements are slow, sluggish. 

The woman, small as she is, grips Sokka’s shoulders and pins him down to the mattress. “Joon! He’s going to hurt himself.” 

Sokka thrashes. He knows he must look like an injured animal, but he doesn’t care. He needs to get out of here, everything else can come later. 

Another woman bursts through the door. She stares at Sokka, her golden, most definitely Fire Nation eyes wide. “I’ll get the medicine,” she says, moving swiftly to the table. 

Before Sokka can even protest, she’s forcing a bitter-tasting liquid into his mouth. It stings his throat as she plugs his nose and he's forced to gulp it back. Again, he feels the pull of darkness and confusion rise in his head. His limbs grow even heavier; he stops thrashing. 

The first woman guides his head to the pillow. He tries to tell her off, to yell at her, but only a low groan of confusion leaves his mouth. Sokka closes his eyes; the room is too bright.

“Stay with him,” Joon says. Her voice sounds far away even though he knows she’s by his bedside. “I’ll get the Fire Lord.”

Whatever sedative they gave him isn’t enough to stop the terror that spikes in Sokka’s chest. In the last clear moments of his fading lucidity, Sokka can’t help but think that whatever he did, he’s gotten himself into deep shit.

Spirits help him—Sokka’s not only gotten himself captured by the Fire Nation, but he’s also managed to catch the attention of Fire Lord Ozai. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the amazing response!! Comments and kudos definitely make me get my ass in gear and write faster. Anyway, enjoy! (haha)

Zuko paces in his room. In all his life, he never thought pacing was something people actually did—he always assumed it was an exaggeration, a built-up expression for when you were feeling restless. 

But today he walks circles in his room. He flits from his window, to the settee, to his bed, to his wardrobe. He’s tried to read. To sleep. He tried firebending and meditating and drinking calming tea, but none of it helps. All he’s managed is a few hours of restless sleep.

Again, he moves back to his window and stares out. Here, he can see the edge of the Caldera rising up on the horizon. The summer sun hangs heavy in the air but the capital teems with life anyways. Aside from a brief break at the height of noon, they can’t afford to stop their work because it’s warm. They’d never get anything done if they tried to. 

Sokka, of course, constantly complained about that fact. He thought that any day where the heat was so intense that it made stones crack should be an automatic holiday. 

“Come on,” he had said to Zuko one too-hot afternoon. He pushed the papers out of the way and sat on the corner of Zuko’s desk. “Just think—instead of sweating to death in a diplomatic meeting, we could be on the beach for a few days.”

“Sokka…” Zuko couldn’t afford to think that way. Once he started entertaining those thoughts, it wouldn’t be long before he was lounging on a beach eating melon and papaya. 

“Fine, fine. For a day then. Just an afternoon, even. At the baths.” He’d leaned in close to Zuko, his long eyelashes batting; his skin held all the warmth and golden threads of the sun. 

“Once the resolution on education reform has passed,” Zuko said. He traced Sokka’s jaw with his finger. “We’ll take a weekend off. Ember Island. Just the two of us, okay? I promise.” 

His eyes are still prickling with exhaustion from both lack of sleep and the memory when a sharp rap sounds on his door. Without hesitation, he crosses from the window and yanks it open. 

Joon stands in front of him, her head lowered in a bow. “Fire Lord Zuko,” she says. “I have news.”

Zuko sucks in a breath. If Sokka was fine, she surely would’ve said that outright. “Come in,” he says and gestures to the small sitting area. “Take a seat.”

Joon sits, even though she seems a little stiff. 

Zuko’s tempted to keep pacing, but he settles down anyway. He bounces his foot in a beat and waits for her to speak. 

“Well,” Joon says. “Ambassador Sokka did wake, My Lord.”

_ Thank Agni. _

“But he was...confused. We had to sedate him.”

The thought of Sokka alone and confused makes Zuko’s heart feel as if it’s frozen. “I’ll be there, when he comes back around,” Zuko swears. Joon, he guesses, has probably pieced together that he and Sokka are more than political allies. If she hasn’t by now, she will soon enough. And, Agni, Zuko doesn’t care. As long as he can be by Sokka’s side, Joon could tell the whole palace (not that he thinks she will). 

Joon nods. “Of course, My Lord.” She bundles her hands on her laps and shifts in place. “But you should know, before you see him, that we did have to restrain him. It can be...jarring to see it. But it’s for his own safety.”

The heat in Zuko’s head rises. “What? No—no. That won’t do.”

“He tried to fight my assistant, Akari. He tried to  _ leave _ , My Lord. If he falls and injuries himself again, there’s a high risk in causing permanent damage.” Her words are firm but kind and her jaw is set. All the hallmarks of an excellent healer, Zuko thinks dryly.

“Alright,” he mutters. More than anything, he tries to convince himself that whatever they had to do is necessary, is what’s best for Sokka. “Alright.”

* * *

Seeing Sokka in the healers’ room isn’t any easier the second time—if anything, it’s worse now. Zuko feels his legs buckle, his hands grow clammy as he enters. The sunlight is as warm and gentle as ever, but Sokka stirs in his sleep now. Before, it was easy to imagine Sokka was only resting. Now, it’s clear he isn’t. His head is bandaged, his expression is pinched and restless, and his limbs are bound to the bed by thick leather straps. 

“Are you sure we can’t take those off?” he asks Joon. He knows his voice is weak. 

Joon purses her lips. “If he’s calm when he comes to, we’ll remove them right away.”

She gestures to Akari and the two women leave the room. Once again, Zuko sinks into the seat at Sokka’s side. From the side table, he lifts a damp cloth and wipes the sheen of sweat off Sokka’s forehead. Under his touch, Sokka’s head twitches. 

“Come on,” Zuko whispers. “You need to get well. That’s a direct order from the Fire Lord, alright? You better not disobey.” He tries to keep his tone light and fails miserably. Instead, his exhaustion and fear and worry pour into his voice. 

* * *

“You need to get well,” says the raspy voice—the same one Sokka vaguely remembers hearing before. He sounds stern, now. Pinched and upset. “That’s a direct order from the Fire Lord, alright? You better not disobey.” It’s distant, still, but closer and clearer than before. 

Sokka’s heart stutters. If he was braver, he’d open his eyes and face his fears. The way a warrior would. But Sokka’s still afraid. He wouldn’t be, he thinks, if he could make a plan. But no matter which way he tries to come at the problem, he can’t think of a way out of this one. At least, not yet. 

Maybe that’s his plan: gather information and wait. It might work (for now, at least). If he waits a day or two, there’s a better chance he’ll find an opening, however small, and plan his escape. 

Sokka slips again, losing himself in that place between dreams and reality. 

In his head, he hears someone call his name. It rings and echoes and then ripples—it's not one person calling for him, it’s many. Katara, he thinks, is one of them. Maybe his dad, too. There are others he doesn’t remember; they’re too high and clear for his mind to have invented them. No. They’re real, he knows. But when his mind tries to sharpen around the faces to which these voices belong, they slip away again.  _ No. _

“Sokka,” whispers the raspy voice. A light touch, the run of a finger slips along Sokka’s arm. 

Sokka leaves the warm and dark place behind and opens his eyes. 

The world is too bright; his eyelids are heavy. Something digs into his wrists and ankles. He tries to pull and lift himself up, but he doesn’t move. Still, his limbs are too heavy and uncooperative. Still, his head aches and his mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. 

“Sokka.” 

Sokka turns. His senses (whatever little he has) spark to alarm.  _ Nononono. _

The man sitting next to Sokka—the man with the raspy voice—is the Fire Lord. Ozai. Sokka knows what the flame hairpiece means. He’s heard stories about those gold eyes—though he hadn’t heard any about a scar. The left side of Ozai’s face is red and raised. His eye is permanently narrowed in a glare. Even his ear is misshapen and curled in on itself. From there, the old burn runs into his hairline. A few stray pieces cover it, but most of the long strands are either pulled up into the topknot or loose and hanging below his shoulders. 

“Sokka. Can you hear me?” Ozai leans forward, closer to Sokka.

Sokka swallows and nods. The movement sends a pulse of pain across his skull. “Ah,” he winces. 

“Don’t move, if it hurts.” Ozai’s hand stretches forward toward Sokka’s face. 

Sokka flinches, as much as he can. “Don’t touch me,” he spits out. He refuses to turn, to look at the Fire Lord. 

“I—I’m sorry,” says the Fire Lord. He sounds hesitant and almost genuine, which only makes Sokka’s stomach turn all the more. 

“You should let me go,” Sokka says through gritted teeth. 

“Yes, of course. I’ll get the healers. We just didn’t want you to hurt yourself…”

Sokka pauses. He hadn’t expected that to work. At all. In his head, he was ready for some tense words. But that wasn’t what happened. Something is missing, Sokka’s certain of it. He’s at a disadvantage trying to play the game without all the pieces.

“Do you need anything else?” Ozai asks. “I can get them to bring you water if you want. Food. Tea. Just name it.”

“Why are you being nice to me?” It might be wrong to question a gift (could be at the bottom of an oubliette, after all) but he needs to know.

“Why  _ wouldn’t  _ I be nice to you?”

“Um, I don’t know? Maybe because you’re the  _ Fire Lord? _ ”

Ozai’s mouth deepens to a frow. On his forehead, a line creases. “Sokka? Are you being serious right now? You’re scaring me.”

“Of course I am.” Even though Sokka’s not sure what happened, he can’t help but savour those words— _ you’re scaring me _ —coming from the Fire Lord himself. 

“Do you remember what happened?” 

“No.”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

Sokka screws his eyes closed. Part of him wants to tell the Fire Lord to go jump in a lake, but his question started to turn the gears in Sokka’s head. What  _ is  _ the last thing he remembers? His head is dizzy with flashes of moments that feel like half-forgotten dreams. Not much is clear. “Hunting, I think.” He can recall that much. Even if it’s more trapping than hunting proper, he can clearly recall going into the tundra. Someone, after all, needs to bring the village food, especially since there can’t be a real hunt without the men. 

“In the South?”

“Where else?” 

“I—Sokka,” Ozai says. He sounds pained. “You haven’t gone home in months.”

“I don’t remember ever leaving,” Sokka admits. He might be giving up too much information, he might be playing it too loose. But if the Fire Lord plans to interrogate him for any information about the Southern Warriors, he might as well know that Sokka has nothing. 

“Do you remember Aang?” The Fire Lord sounds small. 

“No.”

Ozai sucks in a breath. His eyes seem wet. “You don’t remember me, then.”

“Should I?”

Ozai’s lip quivers. “But you’ve been talking to me. You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t have to.” Sokka jerks his chin toward the golden hairpiece. “It’s pretty obvious.”

Ozai reaches up and runs his finger along the edge. “Sokka—who do you think I am?” His right eye is wide; his words are hollow.

Doubt creeps into Sokka’s mind. He’d been so sure of his assumption. But, then, he could have misjudged. “You’re Fire Lord Ozai.” 

“No. I’m not,” the man says. His words are clipped and short; his face is unnaturally still and blank. “I’m Zuko.”

“But you’re still the Fire Lord?”

“Yes.” He pushes the chair away from Sokka’s bed and stands. “We need to send for Katara.”

Katara? Had they captured her too? “No,” Sokka pleads. “Leave her out of this okay? I’ll tell you whatever you want, anything you need to know about the war,” he bluffs. It’s a shallow lie. It’ll never hold up once they realize he has no good information. But the thought of his little sister being dragged into the centre of this is too much. She can’t defend herself; not like he can. He was supposed to look after her. 

“Sokka.” Zuko looks down at him. “The war’s been over for seven years.”

The first thought that strikes Sokka’s mind is that he’s lying. He’s captured in the Fire Nation and he’s being lied to. Being lulled into a false sense of security. 

The second thought that hits Sokka is that Zuko is telling the truth. 

Honestly, Sokka can’t decide which possibility terrifies him more. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments 🥺 you’re all so sweet!!!
> 
> Let me know about the mistakes I made also, my laptop is dying so I had to write and edit this chapter on my phone

Zuko pushes out of the healing room, his eyes burning and his vision tinged with black around the edges. “He’s awake,” he says to Joon, “he’s awake.” He needs to repeat it—he needs to make it real to himself, because most of his mind is still screaming that this is all some horrible dream. 

“Oh! I’m glad he’s come around—“

“He’s...” Zuko starts, his words pinched, “there’s… something is wrong.”

A line between Joon’s eyebrows creases in concern. “Wrong, My Lord? How so?”

“His memory.” Zuko swallows the lump in his throat. “He’s lost years.” He tries to keep his tone impartial, the way that healers do when they talk about the worst kinds of injuries. Zuko remembers their words from when he spent the better part of a month in this same room—they never sounded panicked, but they were always serious and realistic, but still comforting when they gave him news. 

Zuko knows his voice cracked. 

He doesn’t care. 

Joon rushes into Sokka’s room and Akari follows close behind. Zuko takes off in the opposite direction. His head pulses and aches. As the Fire Lord, Zuko prepared himself to be ready for nearly everything: assinations attempts, treason, subterfuge, courtly drama. But, _Agni_ , he’d never expected this. 

* * *

Zuko doesn’t remember how he got to his study. He recalls only storming down a corridor, his hands balled into fists at his sides, and his vision tunneling in. Part of him wants to go running to the arena and set the dome on fire. Burn it to the ground. Let the flames loose until they rage and destroy everything they touch. Another part of him wants to take his dao swords and chop a training dummy to shreds. Another part of him just wants to _scream._ It’s so unfair. All of it. 

Sokka is supposed to be, well, _Sokka._ He’s supposed to be full of wit and jokes and strategy and winks. Seeing him confused and frightened in that damn bed… it was so wrong. His eyes were supposed to sparkle while he brainstormed some clever plan, or gave some sarcastic quip. Instead, his eyes were wild and raw, like a caged animal. 

All Zuko had wanted to do was to reach out and comfort him. Wipe Sokka’s hair from his eyes. Let his hand rest on his shoulder. But in his mind the image of Sokka violently flinching away from him plays over and over. 

And then there’s the fact that he thought Zuko was Ozai. Zuko presses his fingers to his temples, as if he could squeeze that memory from his brain. _You’re Fire Lord Ozai._ Logically, he knows Sokka was just making an assumption. He saw the crown; he knew who led the Fire Nation. It wasn’t meant to be personal. 

But all the logic in the world didn’t stop the way those words slid between Zuko’s ribs and tightened his lungs and pressed at his heart. _You’re Fire Lord Ozai._

Zuko slams his hand against his desk. He can’t give into despair—not now. 

Usually, this is about the time he’d turn to Sokka to make a plan. Now, it’s all on him.

From Sokka’s perspective, he just woke up in enemy territory. He has no one to trust; he can’t know what Zuko’s motives are. 

The best thing Zuko can do is get Katara. Not only can she heal him, but she’ll be a familiar face for Sokka. A small comfort. Besides, Katara and Aang are in Republic City (at least they were last time Zuko heard), which means she could be here in two or three days, at most. Everyone else Sokka would remember is down in the South Pole. 

Zuko bites his lip and pulls out a fresh piece of paper. 

_Katara,_ he writes. 

It’s been a while since he wrote a personal letter—even if this letter is mostly urgent news. Usually, Zuko’s letters are strictly business. In fact, the last time he’d held steady correspondents with someone was with Sokka when he’d gone home for a few months. Their relationship was still new, at the time, and Zuko feared it would fizzle by virtue of time and distance. Instead, he poured himself into those letters. Part of it might’ve been that it was easier to write down those things, those painful and dark thoughts, than to say them aloud. But most of it was the fact that it was _Sokka._ Sokka, who never judged. Sokka, who opened up in return. 

But Zuko can’t think about that now. 

_There’s been an accident,_ he writes on, _Sokka’s been hurt. He’s alive and (physically) alright, but I fear his mind has been gravely injured. He believes it to be before the end of the war. Before you even met Aang. He needs you here._

Zuko doesn’t write: _I need you here._

Instead he closes the letter with some formalities and promises that he’ll cover whatever costs Katara might incur while travelling. 

He seals it and sends it off with the fastest hawk in the palace. _Hurry hurry hurry._

She can’t get here fast enough.   
  


* * *

That might, after blowing off pent up steam and burning through a dozen katas, Zuko makes his way back to his study. His body is so tried that he thinks he might be able to finally manage a few hours of sleep, but there’s something he needs to do before his mind will quiet. 

Once more, he pulls out a fresh sheet of parchment and stretches it across his desk. 

_Dear Uncle,_ he starts, his hand shaking. 

_I don’t know what to do..._

* * *

Sokka doesn’t trust anyone here. It’s nothing personal. He’d just rather stay alive. A warrior, after all, has to be ready for an attack at any time. He refuses to allow himself to be lulled into complacency even if—and that’s _if—_ the war is truly over. 

Which Sokka admits it might be.

The healers, Joon and Akira, seem nice enough and good at what they do. But anyone can be paid to slap a smile on their face while they heal. Spirits, they might not even have to be paid—maybe the threat from the Fire Lord is motivation enough for them to pretend the war is over. 

But the night after he wakes up, Akira helps him into a wheelchair (despite Sokka’s instance he didn’t need one) and takes him for a walk through the gardens. He only agreed because he thought it might be good for reconnaissance. Otherwise he’d never let himself be pushed around—but it’s better if his enemies underestimate him for the time being. 

As Akira takes him through the halls, though, Sokka has to admit this doesn’t feel like a palace of a nation at war. The group of noble-looking people they pass are talking about the bets they’ve placed on something called a ‘pro-bending’ match (which does pique Sokka’s interest) and the giggling maids scrubbing the floors look well fed. 

The place doesn’t feel hollow. There’s no weight hanging over their heads. 

Akira brings Sokka to the gardens and rests his chair under some sort of blossoming tree. In the sky, the sun is sinking fast and there’s a warm breeze in the air. It feels almost nice. Almost. The air is sweet in his lungs (compared to the air in the healing room that smelled of ointments) and the soft wind helps to wick away the sweat on his brow. 

But it’s all still wrong. 

“Akira?” 

“Yes, Ambassador Sokka?”

“Just Sokka. Please.” He frowns. “Did Joon say anything to you about my...condition?” Between the two of them, they’d certainly fussed enough this morning. But after poking and prodding Sokka for the better part of an hour, Joon took off and left him in Akira’s care. 

Akira shakes her head. “No, Amba—Sokka. She’s consulting some medical texts about possible treatment, but I haven’t heard anything new.”

“Oh.”

Akira places a soft hand on his wrist. “I promise you that we’ll tell you as soon as we find anything.”

There’s a slight hesitation after her words, which Sokka takes to mean ‘we’ll tell you even if the news is bad’. He sighs and sinks back in his chair. It’s so weird and wrong and unnatural to have others— _strangers—_ telling him he’s missing a chunk of himself. Sokka doesn’t feel like he’s lost more than a few days, at most. What happened in that vanished chunk? Was there really any possible way for him to have gotten here?

Sokka frowns and stares at the sunset-streaked sky. It feels wrong to be living in this world. He’s like a… reverse ghost. He turns that phrase over in his head. It feels almost right. 

The sun sinks lower and lower until it disappears behind the palace roof. In the east, the sky grows inky and dark. 

“Sir?” Akira says. “I think it’s time we head in.”

Sokka’s nowhere near old enough to be called ‘sir’. Mentally, he still feels about 15. But even physically he’s only 23. Akira can’t be more than a year or two his junior. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But can I at least get a different pillow? The one in the room gave me a crick in the neck.”

“Actually, sir, you’ll be staying in your chambers, not the healing room.”

“Really?” Sokka didn’t even know he had chambers here. 

“Joon approved it, but Fire Lord Zuko suggested it. He thought you might be more comfortable there.”

“Huh.” Out of everyone he’s met here (which albeit isn’t many people), the strangest is undoubtedly Fire Lord Zuko. If that is his real name. 

Why should he take an interest in Sokka? The ruler of a country must have more important things to do. Something at the edge of Sokka’s brain tells him to look closer—there has to be more to the story than he’s seeing. 

But his head still aches all over—nasty shooting pains that make him scrunch his eyes closed. 

Whatever is going on with the Fire Lord, he’ll have to figure it out later. 

* * *

His chambers are magnificent. There’s no way around it. It’s bigger than Gran-Gran’s entire hut and it’s all for him. The bed on the far wall looks as if it could fit a polar-bear-dog. A small sitting area is next to the door, in front of a fireplace. When lit, it must be a great place to rest. One of the sidewalls is entirely lined with the biggest bookshelf Sokka’s ever seen—a mess of scrolls and fat tombes fill every possible space. 

And, more than anything, it looks like home. 

The walls are painted pale blue; the curtains are the colour of the ocean after a storm. The bed sheets (which look like they’re made of silk) catch the light in the same way that thick ice does and a fur pelt rests on the foot of the bed. 

“Oh,” Sokka says. “Wow.”

Akira laughs lightly. “They are something.”

“The palace must be something if all the ambassadors’ suites look like this.”

Akira pauses. “Well, they’re not all quiet like this… but the palace is definitely something. Tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it, we can see some more of the grounds.” She smiles at Sokka, her eyes shining and her red lips turning up at the edges. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

* * *

In the end, Akira begs off after Sokka swears to her that he won’t even try to get up from his wheelchair, save for getting into bed. Akira only agrees on the condition that he’ll call for the guard if he needs anything and that he won’t complain when a healer checks in with him every three hours overnight. 

Sokka sticks to his word. He’s tempted to try, but he’d rather not have to call a guard because he tripped over his own feet. Right now, his limbs still feel all awkward—too big and uncoordinated and unresponsive.

Instead, he wheels himself around the room ( _his_ room) and looks at everything closer. The bookshelf is backed with all sorts of texts: everything from anatomical sketches, to mechanical schematics, to history books, to ancient myths. Most of them look well worn but cared for. 

From there, Sokka crosses over to a wardrobe made of fine polished cherry oak. The wardrobe itself must’ve cost a small fortune, but when Sokka pulls the door open his heart stutters. His clothing must’ve cost more money than he’d ever seen in his entire life. Fine robes of silk, linen, and tightly woven cotton hang from the rack. As expected, there’s the usual blues from the Water Tribe and even some tunics in the greens typical of the Earth Kingdom. 

There’s more red in his wardrobe than Sokka would’ve liked to see. There are black formal robes with red trim, red tunics, and burgundy night clothes. Sokka pushes them aside and tries not to think about how he’s clearly worn those awful colours.

He digs deep into the wardrobe. At the very back is his parka, neatly folded, and some warmer clothing from back home that he clearly hasn’t touched in a while, judging by the thin layer of dust. 

In the end, he pulls free a set of simple white night clothes that have blue stitching around the edges. It’s for the best, Sokka thinks, even if the fabric is rougher than the red silk set. 

With a frown, Sokka realizes there’s no mirror in his room. 

There hadn’t been one in the healing room either. 

It’s on purpose, he thinks. They don’t want him to shock himself. In fact, there’s a small space next to the wardrobe that looks the perfect size for a standing mirror—they’ve purposely removed it. 

And, as frustrating as it is, they can’t keep him from seeing his own reflection forever.

But, as Sokka shrugs off his own (slightly rank) blue tunic, he sucks in a breath. 

A series of dark, brownish bruises start at his collar bone and litter their way down his chest (which is certainly more broad and well muscled than he recalled). 

These marks… they’re not the kind anyone would get from fighting. 

Sokka smirks to himself—the first chance he gets, he’s asking the healers about his love life. They’d know if he has a girlfriend.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos! They definitely motivate me to write faster and are much appreciated!

Sokka wakes in a nest of warm blankets. Sunlight streams through the gaps in the curtains and dances across his bookshelf. The bed, he thinks, must be the most comfortable one in the world. As loathe as he is to admit it, the Fire Nation makes good beds. Much better than his old bed roll back in the South. 

True to Akira’s words, there’d been healers in his room every few hours throughout the night. They needed to check on him, Sokka supposed, to make sure he didn’t die or anything. A dead Water Tribe ambassador would probably not be great for the image of the Fire Nation. 

Vaguely, Sokka wonders what he actually _does_ as an ambassador. Attending meetings, sure. Drafting policy, probably. But that isn’t enough to fill all his time. From what Sokka knows of politics (which isn’t a lot, he’ll admit), his job likely involves a good chunk of attending banquets and balls and talking up various ministers from different nations. 

It all seems so _soft_. Everything about this life does. Plushy beds, fine clothes, servants bringing him food. Where’s the adventure in it all? Where’s the heroics?

Training the next generation of warriors wasn’t Sokka’s favourite job in the world, but at least he’d felt useful. 

Here, he doesn’t even know where his boomerang is. (But it has to be here somewhere, right?) 

Luckily, Sokka can’t stew about it for long. His door flies open and Akira is standing there with a tray full of food in her hands. “Morning,” she says. 

Sokka takes in the smell of hot grease—his stomach tinges with hunger. Yesterday, they’d only let him have some thin broth. “Oh _man,_ that smells good.”

Akira sets the tray down and smiles. “You better keep it down, then. If you’re nauseous at all, we’re switching you back to soup.”

Sokka looks down at the tray—there are fried eggs and rice and some sort of fruit he’s never seen before along with a cup of steaming tea in the corner. Tentatively, he tries a sip. It’s not hot enough to singe his tongue, but it’s pleasantly warm and round with citrus flavour. He’s never had anything like it. “This is really good.”

“Of course it is—that’s a special import from the Jasmine Dragon.”

“The what?”

“The best tea shop in the world.” 

Sokka wrinkles his nose. Who is he here? Drinking fancy, expensive tea? None of his life makes sense. 

Akira isn’t in the mood for his existential crisis. “Come on, eat up. I’ve still got to change the bandages around your head. You’re not my only patient, you know.”

“Sorry.” Sokka tries a piece of the strange orange fruit. His mouth feels as if it’s wrinkling—he can’t remember ever eating anything this sweet in his life. Even the blackberries he had in the summer at home weren’t anything like this. He scrunches his nose. 

“Something wrong?”

“It’s too sweet.”

“It’s mango.”

“It’s what?”

Akira sighs. “You don’t have to eat it, if you don’t want to.”

Sokka bites his lip. Everything here is so _wrong._ Even the food. Even himself—he doesn’t know what he likes anyone. What he dislikes. And his head hurts so fucking bad. Sokka closes his eyes. They sting. Nothing makes sense. 

“Hey.” Akira rests her hand on his arm. “We’ll sort things out. Alright? Fire Lord Zuko’s sent for your sister. She shouldn’t be more than a few days.”

“Right.” Sokka shovels some egg into his mouth and tries not to think. “Right,” he tells himself. 

“If you’re feeling up to it, I think we’ll head back to the garden this afternoon. Fresh air is good, always, and the paths are even if you want to try walking for a short stretch.”

Sokka nods. He’d like that very much. But there’s something else on his mind, too…

“Hey, Akira. Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do I have a girlfriend?”

Akira’s eyebrows shoot up into her dark fringe. “Uh. No. No, you don’t. I mean, not that I know of.”

 _No girlfriend then._ Sokka runs his finger along his sleep shirt, right over where the marks are. “Am I...involved with anyone?”

Akira hesitates. “It’s not my place to say.”

Does that mean yes? Of course, she might not know if Sokka was seeing anyone. It’s a big palace, after all. “Only one more question, I promise—“

“You don’t have any kids, either.”

That was _not_ what Sokka was going to ask, but the relief feels odd. Mixed with shock. Spirits, Sokka hadn’t even considered it a _possibility_. “Um, good to know? But I was actually going to ask if you know where my boomerang is.”

“Oh.” Akira’s cheeks redden. “I’m afraid I don’t have a clue.”

Sokka sighs. He’ll have to look around as soon as he’s feeling up for it; it has to be here somewhere. After all, his parkas are tucked in the back of the wardrobe—his boomerang is probably just in storage too. 

* * *

The hawk arrives halfway through Zuko’s meeting with the finance minister. Zuko snaps up to get the letter and breaks the seal right there. From the corner of his eye, he can see the minister grumble. _Whatever_ , Zuko thinks. He can whine all he wants. Zuko has more pressing matters to attend to. 

The letter is from Katara and there’s no one in the world he’d rather hear from at the moment. 

“You’re dismissed,” he says to the minister. 

The minister bristles and, for a moment, Zuko’s sure he’s going to say something about how important their meeting is. He doesn’t, though. He only gathers his papers and leaves with a bow—a bow that’s probably too shallow, but last year at this time the minister would’ve outright insisted they finish their meeting. He’s making progress, bit by bit. The people like him more. The ministers and council members listen to him without pressing him with as many questions as they used to. It’s different, certainly, around the palace. There’s warmth now where there was only emptiness before and that’s in no small part due to one person in particular. 

Zuko sighs. _There will be warmth again,_ he tells himself and unfurls the paper. 

As it turns out, it’s actually two pieces of paper rolled together. The first one says _Dear Sokka_ in the top corner. Zuko folds it in quarters and slides it in his pocket. He hasn’t seen Sokka since he first woke. That one encounter was painful enough—the way that Sokka looked at him with no flicker of recognition in his eyes felt like a knife in his ribcage that ground against bone whenever he took a breath. But he can’t put it off forever. He’ll go see him after this. He’ll deliver the letter. 

Zuko unravels the paper addressed to him. 

_Zuko_ , it reads, no titles or greetings. 

_By the time you get this, I’ll probably be halfway to the Fire Nation. I’m taking the first ship out of Republic City. Aang has a few loose ends he needs to tie up, but he’ll come as soon as he can. Make sure Sokka gets lots of rest. Don’t push him too hard to remember yet. I’ll need to do an examination before I determine the best way to start healing him; head injuries are always complex._

_Katara_

Zuko holds the letter in his shaking hands and lets out a breath. Katara’s coming. Republic City isn’t far; she’ll likely be here tomorrow or the next day she’ll heal Sokka. Hopefully.

Like any true healer, she made no promises in her letter. Expectations, when recovering from injuries, were dangerous. Zuko remembers those first, murky days when his own face was wrapped in bandages and his world was splintered from pain. He’d asked, he _begged_ them to promise that they could save his eye. They all remained tight-lipped and gave him only promises that they would do what they could. 

Even now, with his half-blurred vision in that eye, there’s no certainty it won’t degenerate. Injuries are unpredictable and brutal. Zuko knows this well. 

But if anyone can help Sokka, it’s Katara. She’s a brilliant healer and, well, Sokka’s her brother (not that Zuko thinks she’d be any less devoted to an unknown face was in her care). 

Tomorrow. Or the next day. Zuko closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can do this. 

He reads the letter once more. Dully, he realizes that Katara gave no indication that Sokka is anything more to him than a friend. And Zuko has no clue if Sokka told her about their relationship. 

Publicly, they hadn’t told anyone they were together. Not friends. Certainly not anyone in either the Royal Court or Water Tribe Council. Zuko isn’t an idiot—he knows the servants talk (there’s only so much he can do when they’re the ones washing his sheets or cleaning the halls outside his door) and he knows that there’s nothing the palace loves more than some good gossip. 

But there’s a world of difference between the rumours of how Zuko and Sokka spend their nights and the intensity of their relationship. The servants don’t know he’d do anything to keep Sokka safe. The gossiping ladies don’t know that Sokka’s it for him. He’s the one. The Fire Sage’s might have an inkling that Sokka’s part of the reason Zuko keeps pushing off marriage, but they don’t know it’s not only because Zuko wants him in bed at night, but also because he wants to wake next to him every morning. 

Zuko sighs. 

They had both agreed it was easier to keep their relationship a secret, especially when they first started to see each other. But maybe they’d been wrong to keep it that way. 

* * *

Later, Zuko finds Sokka in the garden with Akira. He’s up and walking, taking small steps on the smooth path under the cherry tree and half-leaning on Akira for support. 

“Sokka,” Zuko says. He steels his expression. He can’t let his fear and anxieties leak through. 

Both Sokka and Akira turn. 

“Fire Lord Zuko,” Akira says and bows. 

Sokka glances at her and takes the movement as a cue--he tries to bow too, but he wobbles. 

“Please,” Zuko says. “You don’t have to bow. Take a seat.” The sun is so hot that Zuko can already feel sweat start to gather beneath his heavy robes. He swallows. “I don’t want you to fall.”

Sokka eyes him. He’s still suspicious, Zuko can tell. Even if he’s realized by now that no one in the Fire Nation is actively trying to kill him, that doesn’t mean he’ll automatically trust the Fire Lord. “I’m fine standing, thank you.”

“If you insist.” 

Akira’s eyes dart from Sokka to Zuko. “Should I leave you two?”

“No,” Sokka says overtop of Zuko’s, “it’s fine.” 

Zuko feels his stomach turn. “I think Ambassador Sokka could use the support.” He reaches into the pocket of his robe and pulls out the letter. “I only came to give you this, anyway. It’s from your sister.”

Sokka takes it carefully.   
“It’s good to see you up, Sokka,” Zuko says. His eyes burn. “I hope you’re well.”

* * *

Of all the things Sokka expected a Fire Lord would be, awkward was never one of them. But there’s no other way to describe Fire Lord Zuko—the man seems unsure of himself. Unsure of what to say. 

And Sokka hasn’t a clue what that might mean. 

For now, though, he lets Akira guide him to the bench under the cherry tree as the Fire Lord heads back to his meetings. 

“Is he always so strange?”

“I think,” Akira says and pauses, “I think he’s just worried about you.”

“Hm.” Sokka doubts that, but he trusts Akira. She’s kind, after all. Plus he already feels much better today—his body feels more like himself. Yesterday, when he tried to walk, he felt like a newborn polar-pub on ice. With Akira’s help, he managed a turn around the gardens. 

As Sokka unfolds Katara’s letter, his heart slams in his chest. He needs this, he realizes. He needs some familiar comfort. 

_Dear Sokka_ ,

_I’m on my way, you big idiot. I honestly don’t know how you managed to get yourself into this mess, but if anyone could, it would be you._

_Promise me you’ll take it easy. Get lots of rest and stay hydrated. I’ll be there soon._

_I know it must be confusing. I promise you’re safe. I never would’ve believed it, either, but Zuko is our friend. He helped end the war._

_I’m coming. Hang in there._

_Love,_

_Katara_

Sokka folds the letters again and holds it to his chest. Her writing is smaller, neater and more slanted than it used to be. But it’s _hers_. She’s on her way. She’s certain he’s safe. And there’s no one Sokka trusts more than Katara. 

* * *

A ferry between Republic City and Caldera City leaves once a day. The trip is, roughly, two full days. The moment Katara got Zuko’s letter, she shoved a change of clothes and toothbrush in her bag, filled her water skin, kissed Aang on the cheek, and caught the boat that evening. 

Now, she leans against the railing and looks out over the choppy, moonlight waves. The boat cuts through the current and the ocean breeze ripples through her hair. She sinks into a slouch. 

_Sokka,_ she thinks, _what did you get yourself into this time?_

Here, she feels so helpless. Sokka’s hurt and confused and she’s not there with him. She’ll be there by noon tomorrow, but that doesn’t feel soon enough. 

Katara urges the current forward, pushing the boat fast as she dares toward the Fire Nation Capital. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And enter Katara!
> 
> If you want more Zukka, I’ve also got another WIP at the moment called “No Quiet Life” which is meant to be a Zukka bridge between ATLA and Korra, if you’re interested in that sort of thing!


	5. Chapter 5

That night, before bed, Zuko rereads the letter from Katara once more. Her words set a spark of hope to the kindling in his chest. After he finishes his final read through, Zuko holds it over the fireplace, calls a flame to his fingertip and burns the paper until it flakes into ashes. 

Uncle taught him to do this—the Fire Lord’s personal correspondence, no matter how innocuous, were perfect fodder for blackmail. Zuko got in the habit early in his reign of burning his letters after reading them; he got rid of everything from Aang’s notes about the koi in Kyoshi, to Katara’s stories of her and Toph’s adventures in Ba Sing Se, to Uncle’s plain accounts from his tea shop. Even the letters Sokka had written him during the half-year he spent in the Southern Water Tribe had to go. 

Zuko made two exceptions. 

The first is a letter Uncle sent for Zuko’s birthday last year, wherein he tells Zuko how proud he is of him. How much he loves him. Zuko couldn’t bring himself to get rid of that one—instead, he folded it carefully and locked it in the chest by his bed. 

The second exception he made isn’t a full letter. It’s only a torn scrap of the closing. 

_Love, Sokka,_ it reads. 

* * *

Akira and Joon agree that Sokka’s showing good progress. They’ll check on him only once, overnight. And he doesn’t have to use the wheelchair in his room. 

They even give him a small mirror. 

It’s strange to see his face. He sees himself, mostly. A new faint scar, no thicker than a fingernail, sits on his cheekbone. There’s a line that creases his forehead when he wrinkles his nose. It all makes his head spin.

Nothing is right. 

Sokka rubs his jaw—it’s wider than it used to be. More defined. There’s even a rough layer of stubble clinging to his face that doesn’t look half bad. 

This is him, now. Sokka better get used to it. The same way he’s getting used to the Fire Nation and his fancy room. 

That night, as he stirs in his sleep in that too-comfy bed, he dreams of an ocean of fire and a sky full of ships. 

* * *

Katara reaches the Fire Nation in the late morning. The crew is baffled, slightly. They made the crossing in record time. The passengers aren’t complaining, though, so they chalk it up to a strong current and leave it at that. Which is good, Katara thinks. She doesn’t want anyone expecting her to do the trick again next time she travels; she’s tired enough as is. 

Despite her exhaustion, Katara shoulders her bag and starts on the path up to the top of the caldera. It’s a familiar route (granted, she usually sees the path from atop Appa, and the pitch of the volcano is steeper than it looks). But it’s the same, still. The dark rocks, the hot sun and the cool ocean breeze, the outlines of the other islands on the horizon. 

Somewhere, over the years, the Fire Nation had become as familiar to her as the far reaches of the South Pole. The land (which had once been coloured by only her imagination as a world of black rocks and stifling heat, utterly unsuitable for life) was full of beauty. Full of dense rainforests with ferns she’d seen nowhere else in the world. Full of swaying palms. Full of the most delicious, rich fruit and spices that still made her mouth water when she ate. If someone had told her years ago, back when her world was no bigger than her village, that she’d grow fond of the Fire Nation...well, she never would have believed them. 

And it’s no stretch of the imagination to think that Sokka doesn’t believe anyone here either. He _shouldn’t_ believe anyone here; Katara would honestly be more concerned for her brother if he simply accepted what others told him without questioning it for himself. 

And, as much as she wants to go running to his rooms and pull him into a hug and never let go, there’s someone else she needs to see first. She needs to know what she’s walking into. 

So when Katara finally reaches the palace, she tells the guard at the gate she needs an immediate audience with the Fire Lord. 

The guard’s eyes sweep over her; his mouth curls down in a sneer. Katara knows how she must look—she hardly slept on the boat, her hair is wild and slipping from the loopies, and her dress clings to her body with damp sweat from the trek up the volcano under the unforgiving summer sun. 

“Look,” the guard says, “I can tell you’re not from around her, but you’ve gotta know that’s not how this works. You can’t just march up here and demand to see the Fire Lord, Agni help me.”

“He sent for me.”

“Sure he did.”

“His letter is in my bag if you want to see it,” she bluffs. The letter is sitting back on her desk in the apartment she shares with Aang—in her haste to leave, she didn’t think to bring it. “But by all rights, go ahead and keep Zuko waiting.” 

“ _Fire Lord_ Zuko doesn’t have the time to entertain every fangirl who comes knocking on the gate.” He waves at her, motioning that she should keep on her way. 

Katara frowns and points at the guard’s chest. “Look.” He’s nearly a whole head taller than her, with a thick, muscled neck and wide chin, but that’s never stopped her from making a grown man shrink before. 

But before Katara has a chance to jump into a speech, another guard runs up between them. “Banko,” she hisses and leans into his ear to whisper something so quietly that Katara can’t pick it up.

The guard pales. “I apologize for the misunderstanding,” he says with a low bow. “Please enter, Lady Katara.”

Katara nods curtly. “ _Master_ Katara.”

* * *

Katara finds Zuko in his study. Without even a word of greeting, he pulls her into a hug and balls the fabric of her dress in his fist. “Katara,” he says, his voice shaky, “thank Agni you’re here.”

“I came as soon as I could.” 

“You really did,” he agrees. “Actually, how did you get here so fast?”

“That’s not important.” Katara waves him off. 

“What is important is Sokka. How’s he doing?”

Zuko hesitates. “He’s... confused. Understandably. You can speak with Joon—the head healer—more about the exact details. I mean, he’s up. Yesterday he was even walking around. But he doesn’t remember any life apart from the South Pole.”

Katara draws in a sharp breath. She’d been expecting as much, but it still stung to hear those words. “Nothing?”

Zuko shakes his head. “Not even Aang.”

Spirits. “I’ll talk to Joon before I see him.” She hopes, desperately, there’s something she can do. Some way to get his memories right again. “If there’s a way to help him, I’m going to find it.” She’s not sure who she says that for—Zuko or herself. 

Zuko gives her a wry smile. “I don’t doubt you will. And if you need anything, you let me know. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Alright then.” He clears his throat. “Um. Good luck this afternoon. I’ll be back here again this evening if you want to see me after you visit Sokka. Or you can just tell your thoughts on his condition to Joon and she’ll pass them my way.”

Katara pauses. Zuko seems more distant than usual, more closed off. Almost on the edge of defensive. “You’re not coming by?”

“Um. I’m kinda the last person Sokka wants to see right now. Given—well, you know—this,” he says and gestures at his flame hairpiece. His expression is pinched in pain. 

“Oh.” Katara curses herself. “Zuko, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’ll talk to him, okay? You could still stop by. You’re his best friend, after all, and even if he’s missing memories.”

“Even with your word, I doubt Sokka will be ready to chat away with me like we’re old buddies. You might be able to convince him that I’m not up to anything nefarious, but you know what he’s like Katara.”

She nods slowly. Sokka, from the outside, always seemed carefree. But there were careful walls behind his open expression, a type of suspicion aimed at the whole world. If anything, his guard had been all the more heightened when he was younger. In the years since the war, he’d become more trusting. 

“Alright,” Katara says. “Maybe not today. But someday the two of you will need to talk. Okay? Even if it’s... not great.”

Zuko gives her a pained smile that’s closer to a wince. “Alright.” 

* * *

Sokka rests in bed and flips through the pages of the book Akira brought him without really reading it. Because, seriously, it’s not good. It was a nice gesture for her to pick it up, but he’d been hoping for a book with more substance than this... this action thriller. _The Legend of the Blue Spirit_. Sokka knows it’s fiction, but it’s too much of a stretch to believe that anyone would be dumb enough to put on a theatre mask and defy the most powerful army in the world with only a sword. 

He’s thumbing through a chapter where the Blue Spirit saves his girlfriend from certain peril (yet again) when his door rattles and clatters open. 

“Sure,” he says dryly, still staring at his book. “Don’t bother knocking, Akira. I don’t need privacy.”

But, when he glances up, he realizes it’s not Akira standing there. “Katara.” It’s her—it’s her without question, without a doubt. She’s taller now. Grown. No baby fat in her cheeks or limbs. But she’s still got her beads and loopies in her hair. She has the same caring expression, the same warm eyes. 

Warm eyes tinged with water. “Sokka.” She’s on him before he can catch say anything else. “You scared me, you idiot.”

He runs his hand in a circle on her back. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She pulls back and wipes at her eyes. “I’m wrapping you in a dozen layers of fur, you know. You won’t be able to even move your arms, much less hurt yourself.” 

“I expect nothing less.”

“Good.” She squeezes his arm. "You're safe here, you know that, right? You always were."

Logically, Sokka knows he is. Katara's presence only confirms it. But knowing he's safe and feeling safe are two different things.

"Zuko's your best friend, believe it or not."

"I'm leaning more toward the 'not' at the moment." 

“Sokka," she says with a sigh. "I'm going to try and get you your years back. Alright? I figure I can see the problem differently than Joon.” 

Sokka looks at his baby sister—even though she’s grown, she’s still, well, Katara. “No offence, Katara, but Joon’s been healing for like twenty years or something. You might’ve helped Gran Gran with babies and bruises back home, but I’m not sure that’s exactly the same.”

Katara smiles thinly. “I wasn’t a master waterbender then.”

Sokka rolls his eyes. “Not your whole ‘magical water’ thing again—“

“Sokka.” Her voice is hard and flat. “I’m letting that slide because you’re hurt. But I’m not putting up with any of those comments, okay? I shouldn’t have then, and I’m certainly not about to now.

“Just because you can’t bend doesn’t mean you’re any less capable of protecting the people you love, you know,” she adds quietly. 

Sokka’s cheeks warm. “Sorry.” When had she learned to read him so easily? 

“I think we should just get started, today.”

“Alright.” Sokka pulls the edge of his blanket for a moment. “Hey, Katara?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know if I have a girlfriend?”

* * *

The room Katara takes him too is deep within the maze of the palace. Sokka lowers himself into the basin of warm water. His arms shake slightly on the way down, but once he’s floating in the pool, the stiffness in his joints eases. It’s wonderful, to feel weightless. And he’s never had such a pleasant bath—so big and warm—in his life. 

“This might feel strange,” Katara says as she rolls up her sleeves and lowers her hands into the water, “but don’t panic.”

It _does_ feel strange. She didn’t lie about that. The best way he can describe it is that it’s like the slight pressure of the water’s surface has wrapped around his body.

“Just relax,” Katara tells him. “Try to clear your mind.”

She doesn’t add ‘not that there’s much in it’, so Sokka figures she’s serious. He tries to sink into darkness, to let his thoughts slip away. He welcomes a blank slate. A haze. 

Even though he tries to clear, he can’t fight the nagging feeling that swims around the edge of his mind. It’s like trying to remember a dream—he knows there should be something there, but when he tries to pull for a thread, he finds nothing. 

He tries again and again and lets the strange shapes and colours pull through his mind’s eyes.

“Sokka.” Katara gently shakes his shoulder.

He rubs his eyes and sits up. “That’s it?”

“That was half an hour.”

He feels better, without a doubt. The physical wound on the back of his head doesn’t pulse with swollen pain. 

“Anything?” she asks.

Sokka shakes his head. 

“It’s alright. We’ll try again tomorrow. I got a better sense of your injury, at least.”

As Sokka ducks behind a divider to change into dry underclothes and slip his tunic back on, he can’t help but notice the skin along his chest is like new, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Blue Spirit in the Avatar world is something akin to Zorro or Spider-Man. Sorry I don't make the rules.


	6. Chapter 6

For Sokka, the rest of the week passes in a similar way to the first day of Katara’s visit: she barges into his room, usually without bothering to knock; Sokka sinks into the pool-tub and tries to relax while Katara heals him; then afterward he dries off and tells her there’s still nothing new in his head. He and Katara will take dinner together (she tells him the names of all the strange foods) and then, before bed, Akira comes around and makes him walk with her around the palace gardens. It’s good for the head, she says, as well as the heart. 

And when Akira says 'heart', Sokka’s own beats a little faster. 

“What?” she says. 

Sokka’s face warms and he turns away his gaze. He’d been staring. “Nothing,” he says. Nothing at all. 

Akira leads him on and the sun catches on her sleek black hair. 

That night, Sokka stirs his rice around his plate without eating much. 

“Everything okay?” Katara asks. 

“Yeah,” Sokka replies, probably too quickly. 

“No.” He sets down his chopsticks and stares at Katara. “You know last week, when I asked I had a girlfriend? I was being serious.” He can't fight the nagging feeling that something is missing. _Someone_ is missing. But every time he tries to pull that vague inclination into focus, his head screams in protest and his mind fills with fog. 

“Sokka… you shouldn’t worry about that right now. You should focus on getting better—“

“Katara!” Sokka slams his fist against the table. The dishes clatter. “It’s my life! I have a right to know.”

Katara starts at the noise, but she softens after a moment. “I know. You do—you’re right.” She sighs. “But you’re not with anyone, as far as I know. There was a girl, Suki, but you two broke up nearly three years ago now. And she lives on Kyoshi Island, so I doubt you’ve gotten back together.”

“Oh.” Sokka can’t help feeling a little disappointed. He’d wanted something more, he wanted to hear he was caught up in some grand romance. “That’s really all you know?”

“Yes,” she says, but she hesitates. 

“Katara…”

“Fine. There _might_ be someone, but you didn’t tell me about her! All I know is that last year when you were back in the South for a few months, you were constantly sneaking away to send letters. That’s all I know.”

Sokka frowns. So there could be someone, after all. But if his own sister didn’t know… he only had himself to blame for this mess. And, if whoever he was writing too hadn’t reached out by now, she isn’t a part of his life anymore. “Is there anyone who might know?”

“Zuko, probably.”

Sokka wrinkles his nose. 

“Don’t give me that look. You two are friends! Why do you think you agreed to come here? To serve as the ambassador?”

“Could you—“

“I am _not_ talking to him for you. If you want to know, you’re going to have to ask him yourself.”

“Fine.” Sokka decides he can wait. Maybe the mystery girl will come to him first, especially if she hears he’s been hurt. She’ll want to nurse him back to health, and all that. 

They eat in silence after that. 

“Listen “ Katara finally says as she starts to clear their plates, “I was talking to Joon today and we both agree it might be good for you to start training again.”

“Really?” Sokka’s spirits lift in his chest—he’s been aching to do something all week. 

Katara nods. “As long as you’re physically feeling good, some light—and I mean light—training might help you get back to normal.” 

“Yes! Katara I promise I won’t push it too far.” He stands and hugs her tight. 

“Alright, alright.” She brushes him away. “There’s a training room you can use. I’ll show you tonight.” 

“Perfect.” Sokka straightens his tunic. “But do you know where my boomerang is?”

Katara shakes her head. “If it’s not in your room, I can’t help you with that one.” She pauses. “But you know who could—“

“Why would the Fire Lord know where my boomerang is?”

“Because you’re friends!” Katara shakes her head. “You’re gonna have to talk to him, sooner or later.”

Later, Sokka decides, is the better option. 

* * *

Uncle’s letter arrived in the late afternoon, but Zuko only gets to read it over dinner. Which he eats in his study. 

“Anything else, My Lord,” asks Tengo, his assistant. 

Zuko shakes his head. “That will be all. You’re dismissed until morning.” It’s still early—usually, Tengo helps Zuko take off all the layers of his robes and either hang them neatly or sends them to the laundry. Tonight, though, the only company Zuko wants is from his Uncle’s letter.

 _Dear Nephew,_ is the opener. 

Zuko notes this—Uncle tends to stick with his formal title more often than not. Uncle (Zuko has learned) also has an uncanny ability to tell when Zuko needs advice as the Fire Lord and when Zuko needs advice as Zuko. 

_It brings me great pain to hear such an accident befell young Ambassador Sokka. I can only pray to Agni for his quick recovery—he is an invaluable piece in the international peace you have worked to create. The council, you know, always respects his advice on diplomatic manners (nearly as much as you respect his advice on personal issues)._

_Take comfort in the knowledge that the Fire Nation has highly skilled healers, as well as the fact that Master Katara surely won’t rest until her brother is well._

_It can be easy, Nephew, to despair in times like these. I wish I could tell you that everything is going to be okay, but such promises are not mine to make. Instead, you must nurture what you can and offer your support, despite the difficulties. Even the seed that falls on the most fertile soil will not grow in absence of sun_ and _rain._

_I miss you, Nephew. None of the servers I’ve hired at the Jasmine Dragon are as dedicated as you were—though I dare say their brewing ability might have you beat! But I am well. Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself, Fire Lord Zuko. May Agni’s light keep you warm._

_Love,_

_Uncle_

Zuko lowers the letter. The thin paper crinkles in his hand. Anything from Uncle is a comfort at the moment, no matter how brief or small. And at least this time Zuko had been spared the three-page tangent on the merits of matcha. 

He commits Uncle’s advice to his memory: Even the seed that falls on the most fertile soil will not grow in absence of sun and rain. Zuko’s not entirely sure he understands what Uncle means, but the sentiment stays with him. Life would probably be easier if Uncle just came right out and said his advice. Once, Zuko had even suggested that. Uncle only shook his head slowly and explained that ‘the journey to understanding cannot be bypassed’. 

Zuko stopped trying to understand everything Uncle said long ago. For now, he sits with his discomfort. 

But he still needs a way to work through the energy pent up in his gut. Lately, he’s not been sleeping well. After sitting in meetings all day, he gets back to his rooms with his wind full of taxes and budgets and amendments and _Sokka._ The exhaustion, unfortunately, does not spread to his body. 

If Zuko finally wants some rest, he needs to work for it. 

For now, he lights the corner of Uncle’s letter and watches as it curls into black flakes. He sweeps the ashes into the bin next to his desk. 

* * *

When the sun sinks low, Zuko swaps his formal regalia for a loose robe, gathers all his hair up in a top-knot, and heads down toward his training room. It’s one of the perks he most enjoys as Fire Lord—a whole training room to himself. No random onlookers. Nothing to distract him. 

Once in awhile, Zuko doesn’t mind sparing in the courtyard, but more often than not, he needs the peace. The solitude. 

But today, when he opens the door to the room next to the arena, someone is already in there, wildly hacking a broadsword against a training dummy. 

“Sokka.” Zuko’s chest tightens. “You’re here.”

Sokka turns, his eyes wide. He drops into a low and unsure bow. “Um, Fire Lord Zuko.”

Zuko cringes. “Please… don’t do that. You don’t need to bow. And it’s just Zuko.” He brushes the back of his neck and prays to Agni that he might disappear on the spot. 

Sokka stands straight. “I was told that it’s expected of me.”

It’s strange—so strange and painful and fucking unfair—to have Sokka staring at him like he’s a stranger. Worse than a stranger. An enemy. Someone who demands respect. 

“We’re friends,” Zuko says in explanation. It feels so horribly inaccurate, but there’s nothing else he can think to say. 

“Oh. Yeah. Katara mentioned.” Sokka doesn’t quite meet his eye. 

The silence that hangs between them is so thick that Zuko thinks he might choke. 

“So,” he finally says. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. I guess. Still no memories, but at least they let me train again.”

Zuko nods. “Training is good for stress relief.” He bites his lip. _Training is good for stress relief?_ He might as well swallow his own foot.

“Yeah.” Sokka nods slowly and eyes Zuko, ever suspicious. “So did you want something? Or…”

The pain of it all crashes over Zuko like a wave. He can’t get his head above water. He can’t take a breath. He can only trash around, hopelessly trying to find the surface again. 

Sokka thinks he’d only talk to him if he wanted something. 

Zuko forces himself not to react. “I was actually just coming to train,” he says. He hopes that his voice is flat enough. “This is my private room.”

Sokka’s face slackens. “Oh. Katara told me I could use this space, but I can just leave—”

“No!” Zuko clamps his mouth shut. That might’ve been too loud. “No,” he says again at a reasonable volume. “You don’t have to go. I told Katara that you could be here whenever you felt up to it. I just—I just didn’t expect to see you here yet today. But you can stay. It won’t bother me.”

“Uh, thanks,” Sokka says. Without another word, he turns toward the practice dummy and starts slashing his sword against its fabric-covered straw. 

Now that Zuko has time to take in everything properly, he realizes that Sokka isn’t moving as wildly as he’d first assumed. There’s a careful sort of control in his movements; he’s not the swordsman he was last week, but he’s no beginner either. 

“You’re quite good,” Zuko says without thinking. 

Sokka smacks his sword into the dummy and glances back. “Thanks.” 

“Do you remember training?”

“No,” he admits. “I mean, I remember practicing with my club and with my, um, my boomerang, but never with a sword like this.”

“But you know how to use it.”

Sokka looks at the sword and shrugs. “I guess? I never thought about it, really.”

“Sokka.” Zuko feels breathless again, for entirely different reasons. “This is good! You might have some memories, that means. Even if they’re unconscious.”

At this, Sokka quiets too. He pulls his lips into a line. “You think?”

“I do.” Zuko wants nothing more than to pull him into a hug. To hold him so close that he can feel Sokka’s heartbeat. Instead, Zuko stays hovering around the door. “Maybe some practice might jog your memory? I can show you some moves.”

“I should ask my sister,” he says. 

It’s not a no.

Zuko nods. “We’ll check with the healers. But this might be good.”

Sokka’s mouth turns into his warm, crooked grin. “This might be.” He turns his sword over in his hand, looking between his blade and Zuko. “You’re a swordsman?”

“Yeah.”

Sokka’s still staring. “But you don’t have anything with you,” he points out. He’s right, of course. Zuko’s Dao swords are in his room and the training space is just that—space for training. No weapons are ever kept here. 

“No, not today.”

Sokka’s expression pulls into something more guarded once again. “So why are you here, then?”

“What? I’m just gonna run through some Firebending katas.”

“You’re a firebender.” Sokka sounds small. Unlike himself. 

“Yeah.” Zuko had thought that was obvious—he is the Fire _Lord,_ after all. 

“Oh.” Sokka sheaths his sword. “I’ll let you train, then.”

Before Zuko can make sense of what’s happening, Sokka’s pushing past him as he exits the room. “You can stay,” he calls after him. 

His words echo off the corridor walls. The clatter of Sokka’s feet rings in his ears. Zuko's heart beats like a bird against the cage of his ribs and his mind folds in on itself as he tries to figure out how that conversation had taken such a quick and disastrous turn. Not that it was great to start, but, for a moment, they were making progress.

"Sokka," he says again. 

Sokka doesn’t look back.   
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made a pretty detailed outline the other day and right now this ol' thing is shaping up to be roughly 14 chapters. So that means we're halfway, folks! Thanks for all the love and comments.

Most people, upon seeing that someone is buried in a pile of texts, would realize that said person is busy and shouldn’t be disturbed. 

But, Katara thinks, her brother was never ‘most people’. She draws her head up from the anatomical text and sighs. “What is it now, Sokka?”

He slumps into a chair on the other side of her room. The guest suite Zuko gave her is comfortable—with wide windows, study space, and a plush bed—but Katara would rather be in her cramped apartment with Aang. All the pomp and circumstance never sat right with her—or with Aang, for that matter. They were perfectly happy in their simple place in the town newly dubbed Republic City. 

“The Fire Lord came in while I was practicing,” he says as if that alone could explain his bitter mood. 

“So? It’s his room—I told you that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“ _Yes._ I did.” Katara pinches her nose. It’s too late for this—she’d been thinking it was time to get ready for bed before Sokka barged in. It had been a long day on top of an already long week. As if Sokka’s injury wasn’t stressful enough, she’d gotten a letter from Aang earlier in the day; he’s held up in Republic City, dealing with some bitter old Earth Kingdom Lord who refuses to agree to any policy that would strip him of even so much as a morsel of power. 

“I thought you meant that was ‘his training room’ in the sense that it’s ‘his palace’! I didn’t think he’d come strutting in, wanting to firebend—which you didn’t tell me he could do, by the way—“

“He’s the Fire Lord! Of course, he’s a firebender.” Katara could actually tear her hair clear out of her head. 

“Does that seriously not bother you anymore? You’re happy just to come and smile at him and eat at his table as if he’s not responsible for everything, _everything,_ that our village has been through?”

Katara gasps in a breath. Sokka’s words sting—they hook deep in her chest. “What the Fire Nation did was wrong.” She holds her temper in. Sokka’s in too delicate of a state to blow up at him right now. “And Zuko knows that. He stood up against his father—he risked his throne, his country, his family, he risked everything to help us. To help move the world forward. So don’t talk about him like that.” 

Sokka only rolls his eyes. “Fine. Fine. But I’m not about to train with him.”

“Train with him?”

“Yeah. He saw me swing the sword around and went on about how I was better than I should’ve been. Muscle memory or something. Next thing I know he’s offering to train me. Ha.”

Clearly, Sokka thinks it’s ridiculous. But there might be some merit—even though muscle memory is, well, in the muscles, it couldn’t hurt for Sokka to get back into a routine. “You should, you know.”

“Katara,” Sokka whined, dragging out the ‘a’. “Don’t make me train with him.”

“Sokka!” she snaps. It’s too much: Sokka’s not her Sokka, he’s whiny and annoying and immature; Aang is held up across the ocean and not sure when he’ll be able to come; she’s searched every medical text and hasn’t found so much as a hint on how to help Sokka’s condition; and, on top of it all, Zuko’s strangely distant and even more moody than normal. 

“I’m trying to help you! Everyone here is. And you won’t even _listen_. I’m trying my best. Alright? It’s not easy for me here either. I want to help you. You’re not making it easy.” Katara sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. Her eyes feel warm and she knows they’re watering too. It’s not Sokka’s fault—not really—but she’s mourning him, in a way. All the cleverness and rational thought and compassion in him are so… flat, compared to how he’d been the last time she saw him. 

Sokka frowns too. His mouth quirks and he casts his eyes at the ground. “I’m sorry Katara,” he says quietly. “I know you’re trying. It’s just...not easy, you know.”

Katara sighs and wipes at her eyes. _Spirits._ This week has been longer than it had any right to be. “I’m sorry too,” she says through a sniffle. “I shouldn’t haven’t snapped. I’m tired, Sokka. I want to help you but I don’t know how to. And, on top of it all, I miss Aang.”

Sokka comes to her side and pulls her into a cat-bear hug. “Hey. Hey. I’m here.”

“I know.” She pulls him close in a way she hasn’t in a long time. “I know.”

When they part, she can’t help but let out a choked half-laugh through her tears. The spirits could let them rest. That wasn't too much to ask. 

“Hey, Katara?”

“Yeah?”

“Who’s Aang?” Sokka looks a little awkward—he probably knows he should know who Aang is. But he doesn’t. “The Fire Lord asked me if I remembered him when I woke up.”

Katara hesitates. The story of Aang isn’t exactly a short one. “He’s my boyfriend,” she settles on. The shock of the Avatar can wait for another day. Or Aang can tell Sokka himself. “The two of you are good friends. With Zuko, too.”

Sokka nods slowly but says nothing else. He still doesn’t remember. 

On the bright side, he makes no remarks about her having a boyfriend either, so Katara supposes there might be some maturity in Sokka that he hadn’t had at fourteen. 

Sokka takes a deep breath. “If you think it’ll help, I’ll train with Zuko.”

Katara squeezes his arm and gives him a half-smile. “Thank you. You used to train together all the time. It’ll be good.” 

_For both of you_ , she silently adds.

* * *

“Sokka tells me you offered to train him.”

Zuko sighs and folds his arms over his chest. He _had_ offered to train him. He wanted to train him. But that was before Sokka left him in the lurch last night. 

And even though on a deep level Zuko still does want to train Sokka, he’s not sure if he can stand the sight of Sokka walking out in anger. Again. “I don’t know, Katara. There are a dozen others around here who are just as capable and used to training with Sokka as I am.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you backing out?”

“Maybe.”

“Zuko.”

“Katara.”

“I know he’s not exactly… himself, at the moment. But he’s still Sokka. He just needs to find his way back.”

Zuko chews his lip. What Katara said wasn’t exactly new information—he knows Sokka is still Sokka. Somewhere in there. But he’s also not the same Sokka that he woke up next to only last week. 

“I’ll do it,” Zuko says, his throat dry. “But we start with a trial run. If he hates it, he’ll train with the head of the guards from then on.” 

* * *

Sokka stands in front of the Fire Lord, unsure what to say. “Um, hi,” he settles on. He dips his head by way of greeting—he doesn’t bother bowing fully again. He’s still not sure what to call the Fire Lord. He asked him to just call him ‘Zuko’, but that doesn’t feel right. Not yet, anyway. It’s entirely too familiar and comfortable and Sokka isn’t about to let his guard down. 

“You ready?” he asks. He's wearing a simple tunic (the sleeves pushed up around his forearms), loose pants, and has bare feet. Very un-regal. Which is nice, because that formal, gilded armour still makes Sokka's skin crawl.

Sokka nods. He swings the weight of his sword in his hands. It’s even, he thinks. Familiar in a way he didn’t expect it to be. 

The Fire Lord clears his throat and draws his own weapon—it’s a wooden practice sword, the kind normally only used by children. The fact the Fire Lord isn’t using a real weapon isn’t lost on Sokka. 

“So,” he says, “show me your best stance.”

Sokka holds his sword up and sinks back on his heel. 

“Okay, good start. Turn your back foot out a bit more. It should be parallel to your body.” 

Sokka turns his back foot out until it’s at the strange angle. It doesn’t feel natural, but he keeps adjusting his weight until it’s at least comfortable. 

“Good, good.” The Fire Lord sinks into the same stance. “Just practise shifting your weight, back and forward.” 

He takes a quick step, and then another, in his lunge position. He holds his ‘sword’ out without moving it. “You’ve got to get the stance right before you try any other moves. If you don’t have a steady foundation, there’s no point trying to build on it.”

Sokka leans into the motion too. It’s not too difficult, he realizes, to take a few snappy steps back and forward in fighting position. Just forward and back. 

“Alright, there you go,” the Fire Lord says. “One-two-forward, one-two-back.”

Sokka smirks. He’s got this. 

“Watch that your front knee doesn’t come over your foot when you lunge forward.” The Fire Lord isn’t practicing the move himself anymore. He’s come to Sokka’s side. It’s odd, Sokka thinks. He’s just...standing there. Staring. With his hands bundled behind his back and a blank expression on his face. 

His face, which Sokka realizes, is all strong lines. The light coming through the small windows on the far wall dances off the curve of his nose and catches in his fiery eyes. Even on his scared side, where his lid is nearly pinched shut, the light swirls around like liquid gold in his iris. Sokka stops thinking, for a moment. Had he always been so interesting to look at?

“Okay, now try thrusting the sword forward when you step forward.” 

Sokka’s head snaps back—he was staring too. He swallows and pushes himself into his movement, lunging and shuffling his back foot and thrusting his sword forward. 

“A little higher,” the Fire Lord says. Slowly, he reaches forward and rests his fingers under Sokka’s elbow, lifting it up. “Like that.” 

Where his fingers meet his skin, a jolt runs through Sokka’s arm. His muscles tenses; the sword falls from his hand and lands with a clatter on the ground. 

“Shit, shit.” The Fire Lord claps his hand around Sokka’s arm to steady him. “Are you alright?”

Sokka stands and brushes his hand against his neck. “Yeah, yeah.” His cheeks feel warm. Why had he reacted like that? The Fire Lord doesn’t scare him, not anymore, even if he isn’t completely comfortable around him yet. 

The Fire Lord leans down and scoops up the sword. Where his hand had been, a warm circle remains on Sokka’s arm. “Here,” he says, holding out the hilt. There’s some pink in his right cheek, Sokka realizes.

“Thanks.” His mouth is dry. He flexes his hand around the hilt. “Um, let's get back to it, then.”

* * *

By the time Sokka finished training and dragged himself to the healing session with Katara, he found himself looking forward to it—it would ease the aches in muscles if nothing else. 

“So,” Katara says as he enters the room, “how’d the training go?”

Sokka shrugs. “Fine, I guess. Nothing new.”

Katara simply nods and Sokka slips into the water, as had quickly become their routine. 

“Try to clear your mind,” she reminds him, as she always does. “Focus on any images you see. Try to pull them into view.”

Sokka knows the drill. He lets the water wash over him and welcomes the weightless, the pressure the water takes off his joints. 

The water hums as Katara gets to work. It’s not a singing hum, but more of a low-level vibration that flows through Sokka’s body and rings in his ears. As if every part of the water is buzzing to life. 

His mind rolls blank, his muscles tingle. Shakes and colours dance around his head, but every time Sokka reaches for clarity, it eludes him. Again and again. There’s laughter—high and light—echoing in his head. A bright blue light. A surge of fear. Of panic. Of helplessness, swelling in his chest. 

Sokka snaps up in the pool. “Ugh! Stop, Katara, just stop.” He wipes the water off his brow to stop it from dripping in his eyes. 

“Sokka?” She hovers by the side of the pool. “Are you alright?”

He nods slowly, but his heart still thunders in his chest and ears, his breath is tight, and his head spins. “Yeah,” he says between tight breaths. He tries to push down the wave of fear that had crashed into him. Where had that come from?

“You sure?”

“ _Yes."_ Sokka presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Look, Katara. I know you’re trying to help and all, but what if this makes it worse? What if I shouldn’t be trying to remember all this stuff? Maybe this is just pushing it down further!”

“Sokka, from what I’ve read, this is the best possible route to recovery. If we let things go untreated, your memory loss could progress.” She gently places a hand on his shoulder.

Sokka drops his arms into the water, sending up a splash. “I’m not some—some invalid! I’m not gonna break and shatter. You have better things to do with your life than look after me. I mean, why don’t you just head off with Aang and do all the Avatar things you should be doing, instead of doting after me in this boring palace.”

On his shoulder, Katara’s hand tenses. “Sokka.”

“What?”

“Who told you Aang is the Avatar?”

Sokka blinks. Who had told him that? No one, he thinks. It’s a fact. The sky is blue, the South is cold, Katara is his sister, and Aang is the Avatar. In fact, all those things seem to flow together…

“Katara!” He jumps up in the tub. “I remember! We found him, didn’t we? In the iceberg.”

Katara flings herself forward and wraps her arms around Sokka. The bottom of her dress drags in the pool; she doesn’t care. “We did,” she says. “We did.”

Sokka squeezes her back. “That’s all I remember, I think. It gets blurry again after Aang wakes up.” 

Katara nods solemnly, but she gives him a warm half-smile. “It’s a start.”

* * *

Zuko’s halfway between dreams and reality when there’s a sharp rap on his door. For a second, he thinks he imagined it, and he rolls back over, pulling his blanket over his shoulders. But then it sounds again. 

He groans and throws on his robe and opens the door. 

Standing in the entrance is a young woman with hair cropped to her shoulders. One of the healers. “Pardon the interruption, Your Majesty.” She bows. “But Master Katara wanted me to give you this.” She hands him a curled up note. “She says you can reply in the morning, she just wanted to inform you of a development.”

Zuko nods—his heart carefully hopeful—and dismisses her. 

He closes the grand door behind him again and pulls open the paper of the note. 

_Zuko. He remembers Aang. Nothing else yet. But it’s_ _there_ . _—K_

Zuko’s head swims. He holds the note to his chest and slides down against the door. 

Sokka’s memories are still there, even if they’re tucked away inside the maze that is his mind. 

They’re still there. There’s still hope.


	8. Chapter 8

The development in Sokka’s memory pushes Katara back to the library. Once again. She’s certain she’s spent more time there in the last week and a half than she has in the rest of her life combined—which isn’t saying much. There wasn’t one back in her village when she was young and it wasn’t exactly like they had a lot of time to stop and browse books while travelling with Aang. And then the one time they _did_ end up in a library… well, Katara would rather not repeat that experience. Even though there are new libraries in the South and Republic City, they’re still not Katara’s chosen place to pass the time. 

She’ll make the exception for Sokka, though. Besides, the Fire Nation’s Royal Library is something to behold: row after row of books and scrolls on everything from fortune telling to the history of warfare to texts on tidal patterns; high, south-facing windows that let the streaming sun in no matter the time of day; a view of the gardens; and comfortable chairs with grand tables to sit and read. 

Today, she pulls another medical text out of a row of books in the far corner. It’s worn and covered with dust and nearly two-hundred years old. Katara thought the librarian (a petite older woman with a surprisingly sharp gaze) would have a heart attack when she sat at the table with it, but instead she only smiled warmly and said she was happy to see someone finally reading it. 

The problem with the nature of Sokka’s injury is that there are few documented cases of anything like it, Katara muses. It wasn’t uncommon for individuals to lose bits of memory after a head injury, but in all the cases she’d studied, she hasn’t come across any instance of someone losing _years._ Days and weeks, yes. Occasionally even months. But nothing more than a year. Some of that may be due to the nature of the cases that the Fire Nation kept record of—the healers of the past tended to record only their observations of patients within the capital city or the rare peasant with such an exceptional case that it piqued an intellectual curiosity. It’s entirely possible that some farmer or fisherman or seamstress had an injury nearly identical to Sokka’s and recovered completely, but Katara will never know. 

She sighs and rests her chin on her fist. This book—the personal notes of a healer named Chiyo who was well known for treating complex brain injuries—is the best chance Katara figures she has here to make a plan to help Sokka. If there’s nothing here, she’ll have to write to the Northern Water Tribe. Loathe as she is to compliment the system, the generations of women healers have produced extensive medical knowledge. 

Katara flips the first page and focuses on the text. The characters are small and precise; some of the language Chiyo uses is very outdated. Spirits help her. This is going to take forever. 

“Master Katara? I brought this for you. Any guest of the Fire Lord is a guest of mine.” 

She turns to see the librarian setting a steaming cup of tea down on the desk next to her. Katara feels her face warm. She can’t even remember the librarian's name (if she even knew it in the first place). “Oh! Thank you,” she says. 

“Of course.” The librarian nods. “Good luck with your research, dear. Let me know if you need anything. I know these shelves better than most people know their homes.”

“I will.” Katara searches for something to say. “You’re too kind.”

“You’re the one we should all be thanking. The Fire Lord seems quite down without Ambassador Sokka at his side. The Fire Lord and he are quite close, you know.”

Katara knows her brother and Zuko are friends—how couldn’t she? But there’s something in the librarian’s tone that nudges the edges of her mind. Is Katara missing something? 

“With any luck, Sokka will be back to his duties before too long,” Katara says, ignoring her other statement. They’d managed to keep the exact nature of Sokka’s injury quiet (the last thing the Fire Nation needed was a scandal involving the safety of the Southern Ambassador) but there had been many students on the training grounds the day Sokka hit the ground. The general word is that Sokka is still recovering from the blow to the head and taking his duties lightly, but they kept the story of his memory loss quiet. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” the librarian says with a nod. “I’m Kuri, by the way.”

Katara smiles and breathes a sigh of relief that she doesn’t have to ask. “Thank you, Kuri.”

“I do hope to see your brother back on his feet soon. For his sake and the Fire Lord’s.”

As Kuri walks away, Katara stares at the steaming tea and her open book. She knew Sokka was good at his job. It was more than connections that got him his job; he deserved the ambassador role on merit alone. But it seems she might’ve underestimated just how integral he is to both nations. Whoever would have thought that? Not her—and certainly not a young Sokka. 

* * *

Sokka is allowed to sleep in. Finally. For the whole morning, no one bothers him. He has nothing to do until the late afternoon—another training session with the Fire Lord. Part of his brain says ‘ugh’ to that, but another, growing part is looking forward to it. Mildly. Sokka pushes that thought away. For now, it’s just him and the comfy bed and the soft blankets and the bliss of being half awake. Even if he’s so warm between the heat of the summer day and the light flowing in the gap in his curtains that beads of sweat are trickling down his neck, he’s not moving. 

It’s nearly noon when someone finally knocks on his door. He ignores it, the first time. But when it sounds again he rises with a groan, shrugs on a robe, and answers it. 

Akira is standing there. One of her eyebrows is raised and a look of mild amusement paints her face. “I swear the two of you are the same,” she mumbles. 

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, nothing. I came by to give you this—“ she holds out a medium sized tincture— “from Joon. It’s for headaches.”

“Thank you.” Sokka takes the remedy and smiles. The late morning light is kind to Akira; it washes over her face, making her skin glow and her cheekbones pop out. His heartbeat quickens as she smiles. 

“Well,” she says. “If that’s everything I better get on with my rounds. Joon says that your sister is alright to carry on with your healing from here, so I’m not sure when I’ll be seeing you again. I wish you health—“

“Wait.” Sokka blinks. “You’re not coming back?” He hadn’t realized how quickly Akira became a part of his life—the walks in the garden, the constant check ins, her words of encouragement. 

“You don’t need a nurse doting on you every few hours. There are other places I’m needed more. But, if you do need anything, you know where to find me.”

Sokka brushes the back of his neck. “I’m actually not sure if I do. This whole place is a maze, I swear.”

Akira laughs lightly. “Goodbye, Sokka. Take care of yourself.”

As she leaves, Sokka watches her walk away. The bottom of her white robes sways with her hips. At the end of the corridor, she turns and waves before rounding the corner. 

Sokka slinks back into his room and sighs. He knows he should get ready for training with the Fire Lord, but he takes a moment to sink into the chair by the fireplace and moap. It’s just his luck that just as he’s starting to be interested in a girl, she has to leave. Couldn’t it be easy, just for once? 

* * *

Zuko leads Sokka through training. He starts with a simple warm-up and the same back and forward foot motion they practiced yesterday. It’s a simple routine, one much more suited for a child picking up the sword for the first time than a swordsman of Sokka’s level, but Zuko’s hesitant to push it further. He adds in a simple striking motion in near the end—a quick jab, nothing more. They can add in defence tomorrow. 

“Good,” Zuko says as Sokka thrusts his sword forward into the practice dummy. The motion is fluid and powerful. “Just like that.” He steps back and watches him repeat the action. 

When Sokka steps forward, his quad muscles flex and show their definition against the light fabric of his pants. Zuko swallows. He can’t stare. He _doesn’t_ stare.

A line of sweat glistens on Sokka’s forehead and he wipes it off with the back of his hand. “Can’t we move onto something more interesting? I must’ve done this a hundred times.”

“It’s good practice. Besides, there’s no point in trying anything more complicated if you don’t have the basics perfected.” 

Sokka rolls his eyes. “Didn’t I have this move perfected already? Maybe trying something harder will jog a memory.”

“Maybe.” Zuko sees Sokka’s earnest effort. He’s trying to get the move. He really is. He’s not taking shortcuts or thinking the basics aren’t important. He’s just… bored. Frustrated. Probably itching for a challenge. “We can practice something more advanced tomorrow.”

“Yes!” Sokka pumps his arm. For a moment, it’s as if nothing has changed. 

Then Sokka shrinks again. “Uh, I mean thank you. I’m looking forward to it.” He nods politely. 

“Same here,” Zuko says and gives Sokka a small smile. “We used to do this often, you know.”

“So I’ve been told.” Sokka grabs a towel from the side cabinet and wipes off his forehead and neck. 

“I know I can tell you we’re friends, but I also know it’s another thing to believe. Just know you can talk to me. About whatever. Anything.” And Zuko means _anything._

“Okay.” Sokka takes a sip of water and hovers. “Do you mind if I ask you something, then?”

“Not at all.”

“Does Akira have a boyfriend?”

Zuko’s heart drops. His mouth is too dry. Of all the things that he thought Sokka would ask, that certainly wasn’t one of them. “Um. Who? I’m not—I can’t—why do you want to know?”

“The healer. Joon’s assistant.” Sokka shrugs. “She’s cute and she’s nice and kind and clever. Don’t you think?”

Zuko clamps his jaw shut. How can he say anything?

“I get you’re her boss—technically—and everything. I’m just wondering.”

“It would be improper for her to date a patient.” He does his best to keep his expression neutral.

“I’m not her patient anymore. She told me she’s been reassigned.”

“Oh. Uh, well I think she’s dating a guard anyway,” Zuko says, his blood pounding in his ears. It’s not a complete lie. He’s pretty sure he saw her leaning into a conversation with a guard outside the healing rooms last week. 

“Ah. Too bad.” Sokka slips his bag under his shoulder as if it’s nothing. “See you tomorrow?”

Zuko’s head feels warm and his stomach feels tight. It’s not fair that Sokka gets to act as if that wasn’t the worst thing he could have said. It’s not fair that Sokka doesn’t know how deeply he just cut. 

“Practice at dawn tomorrow,” Zuko says. 

“What? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s good for discipline.”

Sokka groans. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’ll see you at dawn.”

* * *

“I have a new idea,” Katara says in the pool room. “It might help.”

Sokka eyes his sister. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her—he does, beyond a shadow of a doubt—but he also doesn’t feel like being the subject of some experiment either. 

“It’s safe, Sokka. Instead of leaving you in silence, I’m just going to say some simple things and I want you to think about my words, okay? I found this method in a book a renowned healer wrote. It helped a patient once.”

“There was someone with a case like mine?”

Katara falters. “Well… not exactly. It was a man who misremembered details of his life after being fed a poison designed to target the brain. But it’s the closest thing I could find to anyone losing years of their life after an accident. And besides, the theory is solid, mechanism of injury aside. The healer hypothesizes it helps stimulate the lobe of the brain that—“

“I believe you, Katara. Let’s get started.” 

Sokka slips into the warm water and the session begins as usual, with the water creeping around him and clinging to his skin with light tension. 

“I want you to follow my voice,” Katara says, “and just let whatever comes to mind sit in your head. Don’t try to push it away or pull it closer. Just let it be.

“I want you to think of friendship. Warmth. Think of laughter. Children.”

Sokka does. He tries to not push anything away or reach for it too much, but that’s surprisingly difficult to do. It was much easier just to keep his mind blank. 

Still, he tries to let the images drift into his head and float around in there. 

Katara’s voice grows distant, but he still tries to follow it as she talks more of friendship and childhood and adventures and family. 

And—

Sokka frowns. There’s a warmth, he remembers. One that would cling to his side as if their world depended on it. And a girl, tiny and delicate, with milky eyes. He feels like he needs to reach out and protect her. The same sort of fear mixed with pride flows through his gut that he feels when he thinks of Katara. He’s worried for her life, for her safety, even though he knows she can take care of herself. 

“Think of joy,” Katara says through the memory, “think of excitement.”

Sokka does. He recalls a thrill, bubbling in his head, and remembers jumping up and calling out. Rocks flying. An announcer's voice ringing through an underground arena. 

And there, in the centre of a ring, is the tiny girl from his memory. Her opponent must be three times her size. 

“Katara!” Sokka snaps up. “I think… I think I remembered something?”

“You sound unsure.”

Sokka bites his lip. “Would it be possible that I could misremember something? I mean—if that first patient had bad memories that needed to be made right, could this take my correct memories and turn them bad?”

Katara’s face falls. “I don’t see how it could,” she says, but her voice wavers. “What is it?”

“I remember this girl. This little girl in some fancy Earth Kingdom dress. But the next thing I can remember, she’s fighting? In some sort of underground tournament? I feel like two memories got mixed together.”

Katara lets out a choked laugh. “Spirits, Sokka. You had me worried. That’s real. It is. That’s just Toph.”

“Toph?”

“She’s our friend. She travelled with us and Aang, way back before Zuko and Suki even joined our group.”

“Oh.” With every fragment Sokka remembers, he’s keenly aware of how much more is missing. It feels monstrous. One step forward, two steps back. He doesn’t even know what ‘group’ Katara is referring to. “Our lives are weird, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. They are.” Katara works up her face in thought. “And you’re not remembering things in order, which could complicate things a lot. But the memories are _there_. Aang wasn’t a fluke.”

His memory of Aang isn’t fluke. Sokka repeats that in his head. His life is there—buried in his head somewhere—he needs only to find his way back through the maze. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s chapter 8! I’ve pulled Kuri (as well as Tengo back in chapter 1) from another one of my fics (This Barefoot Estate) that focused on the lives of the palace staff. I made all those characters so I figured I might as well used them.
> 
> Thanks again for all the amazing comments! They make my day. Also I’m on tumblr @snailwriter 😁


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your amazing comments!

When Zuko walks to the training room, the sun’s just started to flush the dark sky pink. In the distance, he can hear the song of birds as they chirp away and open the day. Dew clings to the leaves in the garden and, when he passes an open window, the air that rolls in is sweet and pleasant. It’s the most beautiful time of day, Zuko thinks. He’s not sure if waking up at dawn is a natural consequence of his firebending or a result of years of habit, but either way, he wouldn’t change it. 

He does know, however, how much Sokka hates it. Sokka (if given the choice) wouldn’t stir before noon and wouldn’t head to bed before midnight. 

It was petty, Zuko would freely admit, to make him get up so early. He couldn’t help it, though. Telling him to come to practice had just sort of… slipped out. A moment of anger, albeit a controlled moment. 

Zuko sighs. He’ll have to let Sokka sleep in tomorrow. He’s free to do what he wants, after all. And as long as Sokka is happy, Zuko should be too. 

Right?

He sighs as he enters the training room. Sokka’s not there yet (Zuko would’ve been surprised if he was) so Zuko slips off his shirt and sits cross-legged in a beam of gold sun. He rests his hands on the tops of his knees and focuses on keeping his breathing slow and steady. He focuses on his inner fire—stoking it and fanning the flames. He focuses on not letting the thoughts of Sokka and Akira throw him off. 

It’s much harder than he’d like it to be. 

* * *

Sokka hates mornings. The birds won’t shut up and the slant of the sun always catches in his eyes. His brain is sluggish, too. It takes him a moment to catch up with what he’s trying to do—he spent a good five minutes trying to tie up his tunic only to realize it was inside out. 

He rubs at his eyes. Dawn is an approximate time, anyway. The sun is barely up. He just hopes the Fire Lord isn’t too annoyed. 

Try as he may, Sokka can’t get a read on the guy. At first in training, he seemed relaxed. In his element. But afterwards, when they were winding down, he seemed different. Tenser. The Fire Lord said they were friends, that they’d talk about anything, but then he got...strange. Maybe they didn’t talk about that. 

But isn’t that what guys talk about? Sokka can’t really remember ever having a friend his own age. He pinches the bridge of his nose—everything sucks. It’s too confusing. And it’s too early. 

Sokka pushes the door to the training room open. “Sorry if I’m late,” he grumbles. 

The Fire Lord is in there, but he’s not training. At least not training like how Sokka’s ever seen before. He’s just sitting there, in the sunlight, with his eyes closed and legs folded criss-cross. His breaths are slow and deep. 

The sunlight washes over him. Without his shirt, Sokka can see how well-muscled the Fire Lord is—his abs and pectorals are trim but he’s solidly built. In the centre of his chest, a red-mark mars his skin. It’s not as wrinkled as the scar around his eye, but it’s just as severe. What had happened to him? The Fire Nation couldn’t have been a gentle place to grow up in, but to see scars so harsh on their _leader_ , the most untouchable man in the nation… Sokka’s not sure what to think. 

The Fire Lord saves Sokka from speaking. He opens his right eye and raises his brow at Sokka. “You finally made it.”

“Yeah.”

“We can get started then.” He untangles his legs and stars to stand. 

“Um, actually—what were you just doing?” It looks calming. It looks like what Sokka needs right now. 

“Just meditating.”

“Oh. It, uh, looks nice.” 

The Fire Lord’s gaze sweeps over Sokka. Strangely, it’s not unwelcome. 

“Are you being serious?” he asks. 

Sokka nods. 

“We can start with it if you’d like. Just sit down and close your eyes.”

Sokka does. He crosses his legs and rests his hands on his knees. 

“Usually this is an exercise for firebenders to control their breathing and inner fire, but it works for anyone. Just concentrate on taking deep, filling breaths. In through your nose. All the way to the bottom of your lungs. Let your ribcage expand. Then, hold it for a few seconds. It shouldn’t be uncomfortable, but don’t rush to exhale.”

Sokka closes his eyes and follows the instructions. “Then let the breath out through your nose, slowly. Don’t rush. Think about getting every last bit of air out of your lungs. Then hold for a few seconds again. 

“From there, just keep repeating the breath pattern. Feel the sun on your skin. Pay attention to every part of your body. Your toes to your ears. Some people like to picture a light glowing from every part of their body.” 

Sokka does. It’s easy. He can let his brain float away and just focuses on breathing and sending that imaginary light glow from his limbs. It sounds all a bit ridiculous, but it’s not what he expected. It’s peaceful. Like this, he feels more in tune with the rest of his body than he has since he woke up from his accident. 

The Fire Lord—Zuko—has an enchanting voice. Sokka lets himself get lost in the raspy tone. He’s easy to listen to, Sokka thinks. He could listen to him talk for hours. 

But, after another few minutes, Zuko stops speaking. The only sound in the room is the rise and fall of their breaths and the distant twitter of the birds. 

For a while, they stay like this. Just breathing and sitting and basking in the sun. 

“Alright,” Zuko says. Sokka’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting there, but the sun is well up now. “That’s enough for today. We should move onto the swords.”

Sokka nods in agreement and untangles his legs. “That was...nice.”

Zuko ducks his head as he picks up his sword—still a wood practice one. “I meditate every morning at sunrise if I can.”

“Would you mind if I joined?” Sokka bites his lip. He hopes he’s not overstepping, but the meditation did feel good. Katara’s healing sessions, while helpful, always left him feeling a tinge of anxiety. Everyone expected him to heal there. But here? He could relax without the pressure. 

“Would I mind?” Zuko says. “Sokka. Of course not. I never would.” 

* * *

Katara finally comes around her brother’s room later in the day. She heard that Zuko called him to train at dawn—which, in her opinion, was just what Sokka needed to kick out some of his complaints—but she guessed he’d be spending the rest of the day rest, after that. 

When she entered the room, it seemed like ‘resting’ was the last thing on Sokka’s mind. “What are you doing?”

Half his room is upturned—draws open, papers are strewn, books pulled free, pillows scattered across the floor. Even his wardrobe is open, but it at least looks like he hasn’t gone as far as to yank out all his clothing.

Sokka lifts his head out from under his bed. Bits of dust cling to his tunic. “Oh, hey Katara.”

Katara steps in and looks around. “Do I even want to know?” Sometimes with her brother, it’s best just to leave him to his business. 

Sokka stands and brushes himself off. “It’s nothing bad. I’m just looking for my boomerang.”

Katara rolls her eyes. “I already told you, ask—“

“—ask Zuko, I know.” Sokka shrugs. “I will. Okay? I just wanted to look around my room, anyway. I thought it might help jog my memory.”

“And did it?”

“No,” Sokka says with a sigh, “I don’t know what half these things are.

“Like these,” Sokka says, pulling her over towards his nightstand and gesturing to two small, unlabelled bottles. “I don’t know what they are. I have no clue if they’re from the healers or what.”

Katara takes the first and unstoppers it. Immediately, the strong scent of spearmint floods her nose. She coughs and lowers the bottle. “I’m not sure what it is, but that’s definitely medical. It’s not from me, though, and Joon would’ve told me if she’d given you anything before I got here. You should ask her if you need to know.”

Sokka nods. “See? There are all these things in my own room and I don’t even know what they are.”

It must feel odd, Katara thinks. She can’t imagine being confused in her apartment with Aang—she knows every inch of the place (which isn’t hard, considering how small it is). “I know it’s hard, Sokka. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Sokka’s lip turns down in a frown. For a moment, Katara thinks he’s going to ask something more serious, but instead he just shoves the second unlabelled bottle at her. “What about this one?”

Katara takes it and pulls off the top once again. There’s no strong smell, only a note of something light and clean that she can’t identify. When she shakes the bottle, the liquid sloshes against the sides and—

Oh. 

Spirits. 

Katara shoves the bottle back at Sokka. Her face feels warm. She wishes she was wearing her parka so she could hide her face in the hood. 

“What?” Sokka looks truly puzzled. 

“You found that in your nightstand?”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Well, the thing is—I think it might be,” Katara stumbles over her words. She is an adult and healer, she shouldn’t be this flustered. “I think that’s lubricant.”

“Why would that be in my nightstand? Shouldn’t it be in a workshop?” Sokka turns the bottle around and holds the glass to the window so light shines through. 

“Not that kind of lubricant.” Katara wishes the ground would open and swallow her whole. Why couldn’t literally anyone else explain this to him? Their father had done so the first time (but evidently might have missed some of the finer details). But Zuko or Aang are both men. Maybe they could explain it. Even Toph would be better suited for this conversation. 

“What?” Sokka’s face morphs from confusion to mortification. “Oh.” He shrinks in himself and shoves it back on the nightstand. “ _Oh_.”

Neither of them can meet the other's eyes. 

“We’re never speaking about this again,” Sokka says. 

“Agreed.”

* * *

The meeting Zuko has to suffer through that afternoon is like most of his meetings—long and boring and painful. The finance minister talks too much. Between Fire Sage Sato’s lisp and tendency to mumble, Zuko can’t make out a word he’s saying. His education minister drifts off to sleep at one point when she’s due to speak next. From across the table, Zuko can’t even give her a sharp nudge, so he’s forced to silently fume until she finally jerks herself awake in time. 

And, despite it all, the educational edict passes.

In the Fire Nation, public education will now be available to all students (regardless of income or status) until the age of sixteen, instead of ending at age twelve. 

Ideally, Zuko would like to extend it until the age of eighteen and the university level, but he’ll take the small win for now. 

Even if it feels hollow. It had been Sokka’s idea, after all. 

And Sokka had been the one he’d promised to take to Ember Island once it passed. 

Which it just did. 

Zuko knows he’s not going to Ember Island any time soon. If at all. 

* * *

In his room that night, Zuko does not sulk. He _contemplates_. He never sulks. He does not. 

He does lie across his settee and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes until colour swims across his vision. How much longer is he going to have to get on like this? He’s close (so close) to begging Katara to go up North and get some of that magical spirit water again. He’ll give the Northern Tribe whatever they want in exchange. They can name their price.

He’s wallowing in contemplation when a sharp knock sounds on his door. Zuko’s got half a mind to tell them off, to tell them he’s thinking and he can’t be disturbed, but he still rolls off the couch and fixes his messy hair. He can’t beg off all his duties forever. 

When he opens the door, though, no one is there. Instantly, he tenses. His eyes flicker towards his guards, who are posted not ten feet away. Thankfully, they seem undisturbed. 

“Who was it?”

“It was Ambassador Sokka, Your Majesty,” says Manzo, the taller of the two. “I told him you were here, if he just wanted to wait a moment. He waited only a moment but said he didn’t want to bother you if you were busy.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Down the hallway and to the right.”

Zuko’s off before he can think. It’s improper, probably, to be jogging through the hallways with his hair down and shoes off. He really doesn’t care. 

When he reaches the end and rounds the corner, he nearly slams into Sokka. 

“Woah,” Sokka says and gently grabs Zuko’s arm above the elbow to steady him. 

“Thanks.” Zuko’s cheeks warm. “Um, the guards said you stopped by?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Sokka gives him a strained look and pulls back his hand. “Look—if you’re busy…”

“I’m not. Really. I was just thinking and took a minute to answer the door. That’s all.”

Sokka cocks an eyebrow but says nothing. 

“So, um, what’s up?” Zuko hates the words as they leave his mouth. He used to be able to talk to Sokka for hours about anything, without hesitation, without regard. Now he can barely get out a simple question. 

“I was just looking for my boomerang. Katara said you might know where it is? I mean, if it’s in a training room or storage space or something.”

Zuko blinks. He knows exactly where it is—tucked into the drawer of Sokka’s stuff in Zuko’s dresser. “It’s in my room,” he says quietly.  
“It is?” Sokka sounds as if he’s halfway between confusion and disbelief. 

“The day before your accident you came around after training. You left it there.” It was more so that Sokka _kept_ it there, but Zuko isn’t about to start into that. “I’m sorry. I meant to get it back to you, but then you were hurt and everything…”

“I get it—no need to apologize. Thanks for taking care of it.” He grins at Zuko. It’s crooked and bright and brilliant and everything Zuko has been missing. "I was worried I might've lost it." 

“You didn't,” Zuko says. “It always makes its way back to you, in the end.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a bit late! My workplace is fully open again now and I was so busy. But as a bonus this is the longest one yet :)

Despite Sokka’s consistent ribbing from the time they were young that he got the brains _and_ the beauty in the family, Katara knows she’s not stupid (and she’s not ugly, either, but that’s another conversation). Sometimes, though, Katara wondered if Sokka really did have a brain. He could be so smart about some things, so clever and pointed and observant, but other times he acted as if his head was full of fluff. Of course, that had improved over the years and he only occasionally had moments of brainlessness nowadays. But when he was thirteen? Katara shuddered to think of those years. And now, with his memory loss, his brain seems to be missing once again. And not just because of the memories. 

The short of it is this: Katara’s certain there’s more to Zuko and Sokka’s friendship than Zuko let on and Sokka remembers. 

The thought had come crashing in like a wave yesterday night when she saw Sokka throwing his boomerang around in the garden. When she asked him where he’d found it, he simply replied “Zuko’s room,” as if it were the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. 

Once that fact washed through her head, all the little pieces she’d missed trailed after. Zuko’s skittishness. The quality of Sokka’s rooms. Sokka’s constant questions about his relationship status. The librarian’s comments. And, yes, even the hickeys on Sokka’s chest that first day that she pretended didn’t exist for her own sake as much as his. 

Looking back on it, Katara can’t believe she didn’t see it before. Something is going on between her brother and Zuko. Or at least there was something. Whatever it was, it’s not ‘going on’ anymore. 

And, whatever it was, Katara’s determined to get to the bottom of it. Sokka needs to know the details of his life. And Zuko needs to be honest--it’s just like him to stubbornly keep his pain to himself. 

Sometimes Katara wonders how either of them manages to function without her. They don’t seem to be very good at it. 

* * *

With his boomerang found, Sokka could at least cross one mystery off his seemingly endless list. He knew he missed it, but he hadn’t realized quite how much he missed it until he was out in the gardens, tossing it around like old times. Part of him felt it was stupid to tie so much of himself into an object, but he doesn’t exactly have the best grasp on his sense of self at the moment. For now, he’s finding the pieces of himself, one by one. 

The piece of himself he’s determined to figure out today is that strange cream he found in his nightstand. Its scent is so strong—it reeks of mint—that it makes his eyes water and his nose run. It has to be medicinal. Katara said so, even though she didn’t know exactly what it was either. But even without Katara, Sokka would’ve guessed the cream had some sort of medical purpose. He would never keep something that smelt this strongly around otherwise. 

And besides, solving the mystery had another perk—he could see Akira again. 

Sokka straightened his tunic and knocked on the door of the healing room. A moment later, a muffled “come in” sounded through the door. 

Sokka opens the door to see Akira standing by the far table. Sitting on the edge of the small bed is a guard—all armour-clad and wide-shouldered. He’s definitely not being healed at the moment and, with his helmet on, Sokka can barely make out his face. In fact, it seems that the two of them had been having a tense conversation if Akira’s sour expression is anything to go by. 

“Oh.” Sokka tenses. Zuko told him she’s seeing a guard. He just didn’t think that Akira’s unnamed boyfriend would be _here._ It makes him want to crawl into his tunic. “I can come back? I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” Akira says, her voice rimmed with a bitter edge. “Haruki was just leaving.”

“Was I?” The guard—Haruki—stands and waves her off. “Whatever then.” When he leaves, he closes the door with a slam that makes the walls shudder. 

Akira lets a hiss of air through her nose. “Sorry about that.”

“I really didn’t mean to intrude.” Sokka wonders how it is that he always manages to find himself in these situations. 

“You didn’t. Really. Haruki is just in a mood—he’s been like that as long as I can remember. Even when he was five he was always slamming doors and picking fights only to calm down ten minutes later.”

Sokka chews the inside of his lip. Haruki doesn’t exactly sound like a catch. Someone as pretty and sharp as Akira could have her choice of men in Caldera. She deserves more than someone who constantly picks fights with her. “Is he… alright?” _Does he treat you well,_ he mentally tacks on. 

“He’ll be fine,” she huffs. “He’s just so immature, you know? I mean, I told him months ago that he needed to take last weekend off for our mom’s birthday party. I mean, she only turns fifty once!”

 _Wait._ Sokka’s brain grinds to a halt. Their mom?

“And when I heard he actually got the time off, I thought ‘well maybe he’s growing up’. But the. What does he do with his weekend off? Runs off to Ember Island with some girl he’s been seeing for barely a month!”

Sokka swallows dryly. “Sorry to hear that.”

Akira shakes her head. “Sorry for ranting. It’s just frustrating. But I’m sure you know what siblings are like,” she says. “No offences to Master Katara,” she tacks on quickly. 

Sokka chuckles. “None taken. We’ve had our fair share of disagreements.” 

Haruki is Akira’s brother. Sokka turns that over in his head a few times. Is there another guard in the picture? Or had Zuko just misread the situation? If he wasn’t certain that Akira was dating someone, he should’ve told Sokka that there was still a possibility of her being single. 

“So was there something you needed?”

Sokka shakes himself out of his thoughts. “Um, yeah.” Sokka holds out the bottle of the strong-scented cream. “I’m not sure what this is.”

Akira peers at it and unstoppers it. She takes a sniff and instantly wrinkles her nose. “Oh, this! It’s an ointment for scars.”

“Scars?” Aside from a small half-moon on his temple he got in a sledding accident when he was young, a purple line on his heel from when he wore a pair of boots that were too big and gave him a nasty blister, and a new thin scratch on his forearm he can’t remember how he got (but he guesses it's probably from a sword), he doesn’t have any scars worth note. Certainly, none that require ointment. 

“Yeah,” Akira says with a nod. “It’s meant to ease the irritation on olds scars. Keeps the skin from drying out and soothes any itchiness.” 

“Good to know.” Sokka nods numbly. 

He only knows one person with a scar so large it would need regular care—and at that, it’s not one but _two._ Both the scar around Zuko’s eye and the scar on his chest still look angry and painful, despite the fact they’re long since healed. 

Sokka tries to breathe evenly. He doesn’t do a very good job. 

There’s only one reason he can think of that would explain why Zuko’s ointment was in the nightstand of his room. 

There has to be another reason. One that would make more sense. 

Hasn’t there?

* * *

Sokka—despite Katara’s teasing that he’s the dumbest smart person she’s ever seen—is actually not that dumb. That taunt, young as they were when she threw it at him, still stings. It’s a sore point for him. It always has been. 

(At the time he might’ve deserved it. He’d attached an old piece of canvas to his sled to make an ice skipper. It had worked well until he realized he had no way to stop.) 

Just because he has a pretty face, people like to discount Sokka. (Okay, it might also have to do with the fact that he enjoys throwing around a boomerang and hunting, but neither of those facts discounts his intelligence.) As an ambassador, he imagines he has more respect nowadays. But the insult still bothers him. He gets ahead of himself, sometimes. 

Now, he needs to take it slower. Not get so wrapped up in his head that he misses what’s in front of him. 

So, after training that afternoon, Sokka lingers. He watches Zuko as he hangs his wooden sword back on the wall and shrugs back on the outer layer of his robes. 

“Everything alright?” Zuko asks. He eyes Sokka oddly. 

Sokka doesn’t care if Zuko caught him staring. In fact, it might be what he needs. Change up his actions to force an actual answer out of Zuko. “Yeah,” he says and steps closer. “I was just thinking.”

“Well don’t strain yourself,” Zuko says dryly. It’s not much, but it’s the closest thing to a joke Sokka’s heard him say over the last few weeks. 

“Funny.” Sokka crosses his arms and takes in Zuko. All his hair is bundled up in a bun, save a few stray strands at the nape of his neck that are too short to reach the tie. Damp with sweat, they cling to the curve of his neck. 

Sokka inches closer. “I was thinking about us, actually.”

For a fraction of a second, Zuko stills. If Sokka hadn’t been watching carefully, he would’ve missed the reaction. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’re friends, right?”

He hesitates a bit too long. “Of course.”

Sokka steps closer. “And you wouldn’t lie to me, right?”

Zuko looks at him, his eye wide. “No,” he says, almost with his breath. 

Sokka moves so close that they’re nearly touching. From here, he can smell the faint traces of the ointment on Zuko’s skin—spearmint and green tea and a dozen other notes he can’t name. It confirms it, beyond a doubt in Sokka’s mind. 

They meant more to each other than Zuko admitted. 

“What are we? To each other?”

Zuko’s eye goes even wider. Even his left eye, pinched as it is, opens in surprise. “Sokka—“

“You promised to tell the truth.”

“Did you remember something?” He doesn’t pull his gaze away. 

Sokka shakes his head. “No—not yet. Is there something I should be remembering?”

“I’m not sure it’s my place to say it to you.” His lips curve downward. 

Sokka—without thinking—reaches for Zuko’s cheek. It’s strange, but not unfamiliar. His thumb grazes the sharp cheekbones and the rest of his hand fits nicely under his jawline. “Zuko.”

Zuko lets out a shuddering breath. He wrenches his gaze away and tries to step back. 

Before Sokka knows what he’s doing, his lips meet Zuko’s. They’re warm—so warm—and Sokka’s not sure if it’s from the heat of the day, the exertion from training, or if firebenders just always run so hot. Whatever it is, it’s not unpleasant. In fact, it’s easy to lean into the kiss. To let his thoughts, let his worries, fall away. It’s easier to be here with Zuko. Zuko with his liquid gold eyes, and the raspy timbre of his voice, and his sleek dark hair, and his easy movements. 

But when Zuko’s hand meets Sokka’s chest, he freezes. His thoughts snap back to his head as he pulls away. Why had he done that? “I—I,” Sokka starts, but he can’t find the rest of his sentence. 

Zuko steps back too, giving Sokka space. “It’s alright, you know.”

“I know that,” Sokka snaps. “I just don’t—I like girls.” 

“You can like both, you know.”

Sokka stops. He knew that. He did. His dad had explained a lot to him back before he left with the men (and thank the spirits that he had or Sokka would’ve had _a lot_ of questions and only Gran Gran to ask). 

But he didn’t like men. Did he? There hadn’t exactly been any guy his own age around in the South, so he never really had to think about it. 

He’d noticed men before. But that was more of an aesthetic admiration. Right? He could appreciate Zuko’s cheekbones and muscles and warmth, but didn’t everyone see that? Didn’t everyone feel that fluttering in their rib cage when he came close? When he smiled?

Sokka shakes his head. “I—I’m sorry.” He shouldn’t have tried to press Zuko. He should’ve found more evidence first—he backed himself into a corner. Where had he hoped this conversation would end? 

Zuko’s mouth twists. He doesn’t meet Sokka’s eyes. “I’m sorry, too.”

* * *

Once, when Zuko was young, Uncle told him that Agni has a cruel sense of humour. At the time, Zuko didn’t understand. Like most things that Uncle told him, it only made sense in retrospect. 

The truth of it is this: the first time that he and Sokka kissed, their conversation went frighteningly similar to the one Zuko had only an hour ago. The kiss that Zuko still feels lingering on his lips. 

The first time they’d kissed, though, that was nearly two and a half years ago. Sokka was up in Caldera City for the first time in months. Though he still was the ambassador back then, he tended to travel much more between all the nations and he split his time nearly evenly between the Fire Nation and Southern Water Tribe. 

They’d been sparring that day too. Zuko with his Dao. Sokka with his space sword. Even though it was late autumn, the day was blisteringly hot, even without the effort of sparring. 

Somewhere between Sokka’s perry and Zuko’s spin, they’d bumped together. Sokka held Zuko tight in his arms before sliding his hand up to his face and tilting his chin upward. The next thing Zuko knew, they were kissing, hot and hesitant, at the time—the wild, unrestrained kisses came later. 

Back then, it had been Zuko to freeze. He was then one who walked away. The one who left Sokka alone in the training room, despite Sokka’s soothing words that it was okay, that there was nothing wrong with what they were doing. 

Zuko knew there wasn’t anything wrong with it. He undid Sozin’s ban early in his reign. But knowing it was alright and accepting love—letting the years of hate and shame drilled into his head fall away—was more difficult than he imagined. 

He told Sokka as much. 

Sokka simply squeezed his hand. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Over the next months, they moved carefully around each other. They spoke more. They slept less. 

And, when the time came for Sokka to return to the South, Zuko missed him more than he imagined he would. He felt Sokka’s absence keenly—the lack of laughter, no one to spar with, no one to whisper his fears too. 

When he received the first letter from Sokka saying the same, Zuko’s heart nearly stopped. _Sokka missed him._ Sokka missed his dry jokes and dedication and support and care. 

They wrote to each other, over the next months. They wrote each day, sending letters before the one before had even been received. 

And, when Sokka came back once the ice broke in the Spring, he told Zuko he wasn't planning on going back any time soon. 

Zuko had Sokka’s private, permanent suite ready for him a week later. 

From there, they came together quietly and without fanfare. They couldn’t be pulled apart. 

“I’m not sure I’m ready to go public yet,” Zuko whispered to Sokka in his bed one night. He pulled him closer and held onto him tightly. “I don’t—it’s just—my advisors. The public. We could have another revolt.”

Sokka brushed Zuko’s hair back and kissed him lightly on the temple. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he whispered again. 

Part of him is always going to be terrified to announce their relationship to the nation. All the peace he’s worked for… is it worth putting on the line for his own happiness? Maybe someday—maybe his children will be able to love freely. But there’s still so much stigma. 

The truth of it is this: Zuko will never be ready to tell. 

The truth of it is also this: it might not matter anymore, anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love! All of you who are reading and commenting and kudoing are amazing :D


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s late (again lol)! Work has been so busy and my laptop isn’t cooperating so I wrote this on my phone mostly at lunch breaks lmao. 
> 
> Thanks again for all your comments! You’re all the best

The next morning, Zuko goes to meditate in the training room despite his doubts. Whether or not Sokka shows up, he needs the time to unwind. To breathe. If he skips mediation, he always ends up cranky and irritable by noon (the time which Sokka used to dub ‘nap time’, much to Zuko’s chagrin). 

He could meditate in his room, Zuko supposes. That’s what he usually did, before Sokka’s accident—he’d open the curtains and sit on his floor in a beam of early sunlight. 

But now? He’s gotten used to meditating in the training room. Surprisingly, he’s carved out his new routine more easily than he expected. Zuko supposes he’s gotten used to change, over the years. There’s not much use in desperately clinging to the past, no matter the circumstances of the present. 

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs, and lets it stream out through his nose. He repeats it, again and again, clearing his head and focusing on his inner flame.

After a while, he hears the soft slide of the door rumbling open. Zuko’s tempted to open his eyes, but he keeps them scrunched shut. He’s really not in the mood for a conversation. 

Sokka (at least, Zuko assumes it’s Sokka) isn’t either. Quiet footsteps get louder and Zuko hears the groan of the floorboards as Sokka sits. Neither of them says anything. They meditate and the heavy silence hangs between them. 

Finally, Zuko cracks his eyes open. Sokka’s sitting there, legs folded underneath him, hair down, and a line wrought into his forehead that suggests he’s doing more worrying than meditating. 

“Look,” Zuko says. For a moment, he thinks of bringing up yesterday’s kiss, he thinks of telling Sokka they don’t have to talk about it, but that’s not entirely true. They’ll have to talk about it at some point. For now, though, Zuko will put it off. “Do you want to train?”

Sokka nods and they move into a basic set of sword fighting moves. 

The next day, they repeat the same thing. The meditating. The training. The not talking.

They do it again and again. 

But on the fourth day of their charade, something shifts. Halfway through their meditation, Zuko hears the unmistakable thunk of a body hitting the ground. Before he can even think, he’s reacting—he rushes to Sokka, who is sprawled flat on the floor, his blue eyes wide. “Oh.” 

Zuko’s hand hovers for a second, but he shifts it under Sokka’s back and helps him sit up again. “Are you alright? What happened?” 

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I didn’t mean to fall. I was just… surprised.”

Zuko arches his eyebrow. “So surprised you fell over?”

Sokka blinks. “I just remembered something. I—I haven’t done that before. I mean, outside of Katara’s healing sessions.”

Zuko stills. The hope leaps in his chest, but he holds it down. “What did you remember?” he asks slowly as if pushing it too hard would break Sokka’s memory all over again.

“There was a crowd. And everyone was cheering? It was so loud and there were people everywhere… it’s almost a blur. My leg was in a cast, I think. I _know_ that it hurt, but I can’t remember the pain, if that makes any sense at all. I just… everything aside, I was happy? And relieved. 

“You were there too,” Sokka says quietly. He blinks rapidly and looks away from Zuko’s eyes. “You were standing in front of the crowd in fancy robes. Aang was by your side.”

Zuko nods slowly. “That was my coronation. The end of the war.”

“It’s the first memory I have of you.” Sokka looks up under his heavy lashes. 

“We knew each other before that.” Zuko’s mouth is dry. In his chest, his heart thumps an uncertain beat. Sokka is close. So close. His lips part and his Adam’s apple bobs and he brushes a strand of dark hair away from his damp forehead. His eyes flicker—they drift down to Zuko’s lips. 

All Zuko wants is to reach out, to cup Sokka’s face. Instead, he keeps his hand frozen at his side. 

Sokka leans forward, leans closer. For a moment, all Zuko hears is the hitch in his breath. 

Until Sokka pulls back. He stands and brushes the dust from the floor off his clothes. “I think I need to talk to my sister,” he says, looking down at Zuko. 

Zuko nods. “That’s probably for the best.”

As Sokka leaves, he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. 

* * *

When Sokka told Katara about the memory coming back—for the first time without her help—her face split into a grin. 

“Sokka! This is incredible,” she said. And then instructed him to keep up the exact routine, without fault. 

It’s not that Sokka doesn’t want to see Zuko… it’s more that he doesn’t want to be forced to spend time with him. Especially not after what happened. Sokka still hasn’t talked to him about the kiss—and Zuko hasn’t brought it up either. So, for the time being, Sokka’s pretending it didn’t happen. Maybe it’ll just go away? 

But despite his hesitations, Sokka shows up to meditate every day for the next week. He’s not meant to wake up this early (his head throbs lightly and exhaustion prickles behind his eyes) but at least he’s getting used to it now. 

And as he sits there with Zuko, meditating and breathing slowly soaking in the sun, his memories drift back slowly. 

It’s not as jarring as the memories from the healing sessions. There are no clear, definite scenes. It’s natural, almost. Like an image coming into focus instead of snapping pieces together.

But Sokka remembers things, like ending the war. Like hanging on to Toph, fearing for his life and hers. Like building a new council chamber in the Southern Water Tribe for the united tribes. Random flashes—pulling up the sail of a ship, unrelenting sun beating on his back; hunched over a desk in an igloo, the only light from a dim lamp, staring at a blank piece of paper; pulling Katara in tight for a hug before she had to leave to the Earth Kingdom. 

There are gaps, still. Ones too big to understand. Whenever he tries to pull the war into focus, it slips out of his view once again. Zuko is a gap too, along with most of the Fire Nation. 

When he tells Katara about the block, she simply shrugs. “Those memories are more complicated, Sokka. More painful, too. I’m sure you just need time.”

But it’s been almost a month since he lost his memories—Sokka’s not sure how much longer he can wait. 

* * *

Finally— _finally—_ Katara gets a letter from Aang saying what she’s wanted to hear for nearly a month. 

He’s on his way to the Fire Nation. 

She knows Republic City needs his help. The city is in its early years now. In another ten, fifteen years, it’ll be humming along on its own, but for now, it needs help to get off the ground. 

Katara and Aang had been hashing out details with some Earth Kingdom nobles when she’d gotten news of Sokka’s accident. Between the stubbornness of the old Lords and the fact that Aang had been saddled with the work of two people instead of one, he’d been held up in Republic City much longer than either of them expected. 

As much as Katara wished he could cut everything and come to the Fire Nation, she knew he had duties. The Avatar couldn’t just ditch important negotiations—especially when it became clear that Sokka was alright and recovering. But _spirits_ did Katara miss him. 

But his arrival isn’t without complications. Well, one complication mostly: Katara still isn’t certain about exactly what sort of relationship Zuko and her brother had before Sokka’s accident. Over the past week, she’d watched them carefully. She caught them stealing glimpses at each other over dinner. She’d seen Zuko’s cheeks redden when Sokka was too near and she’d seen Sokka set his jaw with the stubborn determination he always used when he was refusing to acknowledge a problem that was right under his nose. 

Katara sighs and sets down Aang’s letter on her desk. It’s getting late; she’ll have to wait until tomorrow to speak with Zuko. Through her window, she can see the warm, sunset orange is being swallowed by an inky deep-blue. She has to talk to Zuko. Before Aang arrives and another person tips the careful relationship dynamic, she needs to know whatever it is that Zuko’s not saying. 

* * *

When she was younger, Katara had no problem firing off whatever was on her mind. She still doesn’t, but she’s also learned there’s a time and place to come bursting forth and a time and place to be more...diplomatic with her approach. She knows if she crashes into Zuko’s chambers, demanding to know if he was seeing her brother, Zuko will shut his mouth tighter than a whale-clam. 

Instead, Katara times her movements and catches him in the corridor, coming out of a meeting. 

“Zuko!” she says, her voice light and soft. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches some Fire Sage shooting her a death glare for not using Zuko’s proper titles. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Zuko lifts his eyebrow. “I just came out of a meeting?” He sounds unsure. Perhaps she laid it on a little hard. “And… well… this is sort of my palace.”

Katara laughs at that—she doesn’t have to fake it. It _is_ his home, after all. “I just didn’t expect to see you, that’s all. You’ve been so busy lately, between everything. And those meetings? I mean, I know how they go. You must be exhausted.” He does look tired, she thinks. His right eye is sunk into a dark bag. 

“It’s been a long few weeks,” he admits. 

“You need a break! Come on,” she says, dragging him forward before he can protest. A guard gives a hum of displeasure at seeing her wrap her hand around his wrist, but Katara doesn’t pay attention. 

And, before Zuko can tell her he’s too busy, they’re both sitting on a balcony overlooking the garden with a pot of green tea on the way.

Zuko sighs and leans back in his chair. His top-knot sags slightly and Katara isn’t sure if it’s from the heat or just another sign of how thin Zuko has run himself over the past month. 

“I got a letter from Aang today. He should finally be here the day after tomorrow.” 

“That’s good.” Zuko accepts the tea from a servant and sips it without another word. His gaze is directed out at the garden, but Katara thinks his eyes look farther away. 

“I’m glad he’s on his way—I missed him. A lot. And I know he has his duties and responsibilities and everything, but that doesn’t change the fact that I wish he could’ve been here sooner.”

“Mhmm.” Zuko nods slowly and takes another long drink of tea. 

This is going to be harder than Katara expected. Zuko has never been the most chatty person, but trying to get him to talk is like trying to waterbend in the desert. She’s going to have to try a different method. 

Katara takes a drink of her own tea. The particular blend is a touch too bitter for her own taste. “Zuko? There’s something I want to ask you before Aang gets here. You don’t have to answer, if you’re not comfortable.”

He eyes her strangely, clearly unsure of what she’s talking about. “Go ahead, I guess.”

“Were and Sokka together?”

He doesn’t spit out his tea the way Katara half-expected him too. He does, however, take a giant gulp of his drink and then sputters as the still-steaming liquid must’ve caught in his throat. “What would make you think that?”

Katara shoots him a look. “Should I give you the full list of reasons or just the top three? 

Zuko closes his eyes and sets the cup on the table with a light ceramic click. “Katara… it’s complicated.”

“I know it’s complicated. But it’s only going to get _more_ complicated as things go along.”

Zuko opens his eyes and blinks rapidly. In their corners, they look wet. 

Katara turns her head out to the garden—the balcony is semi-private, but a pang of regret sinks into her gut. It might’ve been better to pick somewhere that was entirely out of the prying gaze of other nobles and out of ear-shot of lingering servants. But the gentle breeze and cherry-blossom scent that comes brings a needed lightness to their conversation. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” she says, even though she knows that’s a lie. She did mean to put him on the spot. Not that she had much other choice. “I wanted to clear the air before Aang arrives.”

“It’s alright,” Zuko says. “I just didn’t expect it.”

They sit in silence. Katara doesn’t want to press him again and Zuko, apparently, isn’t ready to speak freely. 

“We were together,” he says softly. “Over two years.”

“Two years!” Katara had thought _months_ not years. 

Zuko frowns. “Depending on how you count it.”

“So it was you who Sokka was always writing to back in the South?”

“Yes.”

“You could’ve told us, you know.” Katara bites the inside of her lip. “I would’ve been nothing but happy for you—I _am_ happy for you.”

Zuko lets out a dry chuckle. “I didn’t want to tell. I was afraid, you know. Even though it’s legal for us to be together now, that doesn’t mean the stigma hasn’t lingered. Besides—it doesn’t matter anymore. We aren’t together now.”

Katara realizes with a sting how much Zuko’s been hurting this last month. He’s hidden it well, she thinks. If Aang woke up one day, obvious to their relationship, and thinking she was the enemy… Katara thinks she’s being down a tsunami. 

“Have you told him?” 

“What was I supposed to tell him? ‘Hey, Sokka. I know you just woke up and thought that I was Ozai—the leader of the enemy nation—but we’re actually madly in love.’”

Katara winces. Zuko’s right, she knows. Sokka never would’ve believed him if he had told him, not at first. But it’s been a while, now. They’ve settled into things. 

“I’m not going to tell you what to do or how to live your life. But I think Sokka deserves to know, now. You know him—he hates having to make a decision without all the information.” 

“I know.” Zuko bundles his hands in his lap and takes a deep breath. 

“I’ll do it,” he says. “I’ll tell him.” It sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than her. 

Katara swallows the last of her tea. “Good luck, Zuko. I mean it. If you need to talk, you know where to find me.” 

“Conveniently lurking in the corridor outside of the council chamber?” 

Katara crosses her arms, her cheeks warm. “Shut it.” 

* * *

Sokka’s body aches. He’s gotten used to it over the past month. Between his physical injury, the stress of trying to recover his memory, and the movement of sword fighting (practice as it may be) there’s always a part of him that’s sore and achy, even with the birch-bark tea Katara has arranged to be delivered to his chambers nightly. 

Today is no expectation. When he started practice, his quads and glutes were already sore from the hot-squats the day before. After a solid hour of pressing training, there’s nothing Sokka wants more than to sink into a cool bath to wash the sheen of sweat away from his skin and then nap in the sun like a lazy possum-cat. 

But as he’s hanging up his sword, he hears Zuko clear his throat. 

“Can I talk to you?”

Sokka tenses. He’s been waiting for those words for a week now and praying they wouldn’t come. Zuko is… Zuko is an unknown factor. An unknown factor with silky hair and a warm smile and liquid gold eyes, sure, but an unknown factor all the same. It doesn’t sit well with Sokka. It’s easier to discount the outlying information than try and work it into his patchwork view of the world. “Sure,” he says, despite his hesitation. 

“There’s something I need to tell you.” Zuko shifts to put away his practice sword and doesn’t quite meet Sokka’s eyes. His chest rises and falls and the air tingles with energy. “I didn’t mean to hide it from you—I just didn’t know how to bring it up. 

“And I thought I’d just ignore it. I thought that it wasn’t relevant anymore. That you’d either remember it or you wouldn’t and that it wasn’t my place to say anything.” Zuko shakes his head slowly. 

“But I was wrong about that. We can’t ignore it anymore. Not after—not after we kissed.”

Sokka frowns. _It was only a kiss_ , he wants to say, but the words die in his throat. It was more than that, he knows. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it. 

“Look. What I’m about to say… you don’t need to say anything back. You can walk out of this room and tell me to go jump off a cliff, if you feel like it. But I need to say it. 

“We were together. You and me. We were together before your accident. We were together for over two years—and interested in each other long before that.”

Sokka swallows. Zuko’s confession, bold as it is, isn’t a shock. It feels right. As if the picture of his past just titled into clear focus. 

“I know this is a lot,” Zuko says, pushing a hand into his hair. “But I couldn’t let it go unsaid. Not with the way I feel about you. I—I love you, Sokka. I’ve loved you for years.” Zuko looks up—the light catches in the plains of his face. “And I love you enough to say goodbye to you as you leave, if that’s what you wish.”

Sokka looks down at the boards of the floor. The polished wood shines and gleams like every inch of the palace. It’s still unimaginable, sometimes, that he really lives here. That he’s not in the South Pole anymore. 

But, somehow, the thought of him being with Zuko is what makes the most sense out of any of this. Sokka steps forward. “You’d say goodbye to me? If that’s what I wanted?”

“Of course.” Zuko sets his face, the determination Sokka’s come to admire gleaming through. Zuko—behind his strength is kindness. Determination to do what was right, no matter the cost to him personally. 

“And what if I don’t want you to say goodbye?”

Zuko’s chest shudders. “What?”

Sokka moves closer. “What if I want to stay?”

Zuko’s lips part, then close, then pull into a smile. “Then I’d tell you that you’re welcome to stay as long so you want.”

Sokka reaches forward and tangles his fingers between Zuko’s. 

“Would that be alright?” Zuko asks. 

“Yeah,” Sokka says. “I think that will do.”

And, once more, he’s pulling Zuko close and his lips are finding Zuko’s lips and a hand is running along the back of his head. 

When they pause, Sokka pulls back with a smile. “But one condition—you have to help me fill in the gaps.” 


	12. Chapter 12

In the morning, they skip meditating and training to go greet Aang. The Avatar. The thought of it all still sits strangely in Sokka’s mind—not only is the Avatar back, alive and well, and defeated the old Fire Lord, but the Avatar is dating Sokka’s  _ little sister.  _ Sokka shakes his head. He has a fragment of a memory of Aang, maybe 15 or so, laughing on a hot summer day as he flung both a ball of water and a stream of air at Sokka’s head. After that, Sokka can’t recall anything about Aang and only has Katara’s stories to base his mental image of him off of (and she insists she’s no longer taller than him). It’s strange, he thinks. So much of his life is still wrapped in fog—even if it’s lifting, slowly, day by day. 

“Come on,” Katara says, dragging Sokka through the palace toward an open courtyard that Sokka’s never seen before. “I don’t want to miss him.” 

“Katara—he’s staying here. You’re not gonna miss him. Even if you don’t catch him in the courtyard, you’ll see him before lunch.”

Katara whips her head around and glares. 

Sokka raises his hands in defence. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles. After all, Katara is here looking after him. If he’d been a little more careful on the training field, she’d be in Republic City with Aang, sorting through the city's political turmoil. Katara deserves a break, in Sokka’s opinion. She deserves a week on a beach somewhere, with a bungalow next to the water and a kitchen stocked with moon peaches and rice wine. 

Katara, thankfully, is too excited about Aang’s arrival to hold much of a grudge against Sokka; she only urges him to hurry onward. Sokka isn’t trying to be slow. Honestly. But he’s never been down this corridor before (at least he doesn’t remember ever coming this way) and he keeps being distracted by the endless decorations of the palace. Each hall seems to be covered in more splendour than the one before: fine china vases, gilded tapestries, and gem-encrusted ornaments seem to adorn every inch of this place. Sometimes, Sokka still has a hard time believing he really lives here. 

“Come on!” Katara insists again. Sokka wrenches his head away from a wall-size painting and follows her outside the palace door. 

The heat hits him like a wall. Spirits. How do people live here? The sun is barely up and it’s already too warm to function. Not even the slightest breeze stirs the muggy air. Sokka wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead and wonders how long it’ll be before Aang arrives. He already feels like he’s sagging in the heat and it has only been a few moments. After half an hour? Sokka’s certain he’ll melt. He’s from the Southern Water Tribe, after all—give him a blizzard and he’ll wrap himself in furs until he’s toasty. But heat he can’t escape. As it is, he’s only in a light tunic. It’s hardly appropriate to strip it off. 

“Aang won’t be long,” Katara says and she strolls over toward the shade of an apricot tree near a squat wooden shelter filled with straw. “He had to get an early start—Appa can’t travel when it’s hot like this.”

Sokka nods. Katara, it seems, is handling the heat better than he is. With her hair pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck, it’s clear she knows how to handle this weather. She’s had to get used to it, over the years. He must’ve had to get used to this heat, too. If only he could remember. Sokka sinks back in the shade and stares at the light brick of the courtyard. In the distance, a few figures clad in long sleeve linens filter in through the gate.  _ Staff _ , he thinks. Coming in to start their shift. 

Sokka stares at the ornate palace gate—something in the back of his head prickles at the thought of what’s on the other side. He hasn’t been outside the palace since his accident; the one garden he spent his spare time in is tucked in the centre of several palace walls. Technically, he’s still not outside the palace proper—there’s still one more wall to pass before he’s in the town proper. He hadn’t thought of it this way before. At first, he’d been too sore and disoriented to walk more than a few feet at a time, let alone venture out into the city. Then, once Katara arrived, he found the familiarity comforting. 

He hadn’t realized how much like a prison the palace is. And he doesn’t even know what sort of world would greet him on the other side of that wall. 

Thankfully, Sokka doesn’t get the chance to dwell on that thought. 

“Mind if I join you?”

“Zuko.” Sokka smiles and shifts over in the shade, creating a person size-spot to sit. Zuko looks brilliant, today. As he always does. But even he has lost a layer of heavy robes and now wears a much simpler one of soft red. 

Zuko grimaces. “I, uh, I probably shouldn’t.” He brushes the back of his neck. “The Fire Lord can’t sit on the ground. If I do, there would be a dozen sages reprimanding me before I could even take a breath.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize.” Sokka looks at his leather sandals. He likes Zuko—he really does. But he still doesn’t know how to navigate this whole… ‘thing’ yet. He’ll learn, he hopes. 

Katara glances between the two of them, but before she can say whatever it is that’s on her mind, she jumps back to her heels and jams her finger to the sky. “Look!”

Sokka squints. A blurry blob grows bigger against the clear blue sky. After a few moments, it pulls into a view—a fluffy, off-white bison shakes his head.  _ Appa.  _ Sokka has a fragment of a memory of scrubbing between the bison’s toes. 

Before Sokka can wrap his head around the fact that the bison is  _ actually flying  _ (because seeing it is different than knowing it) the great animal is landing a few paces in front of him. 

“Katara!” says the man on the back—Aang. Katara runs forward and Aang pulls her into a tight embrace and plants a quick kiss on her lips. 

“Sokka! Good to see you up and about,” Aang says when he steps back. Sokka’s not spared from a hug either, and so he ends up being stiff and awkward about it. 

This Aang isn’t the Aang he remembers. The Aang in his mind is a round-faced child—not a grown man, almost the same height as Sokka, with a sharp jaw and surprisingly lean muscles under his rich orange robes. 

“You’ve grown,” Sokka sputters out. 

Aang laughs (thankfully) and flashes a crooked grin. “You sound like Master Iroh.” 

Aang moves to say hello to Zuko, but whatever words they exchange are lost to Sokka’s ears—instead, the side of his head is met with a great, slopping wetness. 

“Euch.” Sokka wipes the saliva off his face. Appa cocks his head. 

Sokka sighs and rubs the side of his neck. “Great to see you, boy.”

Appa huffs and leans into the rub. 

And, for a moment, Sokka feels like his life could actually be normal. 

* * *

In the privacy of her room, Katara leans into Aang’s chest. “I missed you,” she says. 

Aang runs a hand over her head, careful not to ruin her braid. “I know.” He presses his cheek to hers. “I missed you too, sweetie.” 

Aang starts to stand to his full height, to move away, but Katara grips the seam of his robe and holds him close. “I’m scared Aang.” Her eyes burn. She hadn’t wanted to admit it before now. “What if I can’t help him?” 

“You’re the most brilliant healer North of the South Pole.” He squeezes her hand. “If anyone can help your brother, it’s you. 

“And… Katara. No matter what, I swear we’ll find a way forward.”

“Promise?”

He hums. “Promise.” Aang brushes her hair loopie away from her face and plants a kiss on her forehead. 

All Katara wants to do is stay like this, wrapped around each other, until the sun sinks low and the stars come out of hiding. But they have a lunch to attend. 

“Come on, Avatar. You have duties.” She smirks. “And you still smell like Appa.” 

Aang rolls his eyes playfully. “You have duties too, you know. And what’s _your_ excuse for why you smell…” Aang trails off, his eyes wide at the joke he nearly made. 

Katara holds in a laugh. “Go on, finish that.” 

Aang shakes his head. “I don’t think I will.”

“Good choice.”

“I’m learning.”

Katara lets out a peal of laughter and Aang follows suit. His grey eyes sparkle at her—that hollow in her chest fills. She missed him.  _ Spirits _ did she miss him. 

Now, with Aang at her side, she can’t help but feeling that things might just be alright. 

* * *

Zuko had to do something to welcome the Avatar—not on account of Aang, but rather at the instance of the Fire Sages who, post-war, had decided to support the Avatar once again. And apparently that included formal welcomes, even though Zuko knew Aang was satisfied as long as he saw his friends. 

Given both the short notice and Zuko’s general short tolerance for formalities at the moment, he opted for a welcome lunch. The Sages only grumbled slightly at that choice. 

So now, Zuko is at the head of the table with Aang at the other end. Months without seeing his friend and now he doesn’t even have the option of talking to him plainly. If he wants to speak with Aang, he’ll need to raise his voice and overtake the whole table. At least the Fire Sages next to Aang seem pleased. 

But Zuko can’t complain too much—Sokka is seated directly to his right. For the first time in a month, they’re sharing a meal together. It’s such a simple thing. Before, Zuko hardly took note of when they ate together; taking dinner together in Zuko’s apartments was simply another part of their everyday routine.

Zuko pokes at a piece of tempura with his chopstick. He shouldn’t be glum. Not now. He should slap on his best formal, dignified face and nod along with the discussion of taxation in the Eastern Islands. But he’s been putting on his best ‘nothing is wrong’ face for a while now and it’s starting to wear him thin. The Fire Sages, the court in general, anyone outside of the healers and his friends—they don’t even know the full story of Sokka’s injury. Everyone who witnessed Sokka’s accident spread the story of his head injury, so Zuko has simply stuck with that version of events and told the council that he needed only time to recover. No one needed to know about Sokka’s memory problem. 

But (despite the quick debrief on names and ranks Zuko gave him before lunch) the Sages seem intent on pushing Sokka to the limit today. Even though Zuko has warned the Sages off talking politics. 

“As I was saying, Ambassador Sokka, your presence has been missed at meetings,” says Sage Ito. There’s an edge to his voice, something nearly mocking. Zuko curls his fingers tight around his chopstick. 

Sokka nods—ever the diplomat. “I’m looking forward to getting back to my duties, once I’m well enough.”

“You’ve been gone a long while now, haven’t you? Surely you must be better.” The Sage’s lips curl up in a putrid smile. “You’re here today, no?”

“With respect, Sage Ito, sitting through a lunch is much different than sitting through and contributing to an important meeting,” Katara chimes in. “Head injuries are complex in nature; we can’t push through this recovery without taking significant risks.”

“Only the best for Ambassador Sokka, I’m sure.” Sage Ito bundles his hands on his lap. 

Zuko takes a deep breath and tries to calm the flames in his throat that are threatening to leap up. How dare he lean into this now? The Sages, recently, have taken issue with Sokka. Zuko guesses it’s because they suspect he’s the one stopping Zuko from even entertaining any of their ideas about who might make a suitable wife and Fire Lady. 

“Since we’ve been missing you at meetings, perhaps you’d like to give us your perspective on the reparation demands of the South-Eastern Earth Kingdom?” asks Sage Ito. 

“Um, well,” Sokka says and swallows. “I haven’t really—I’m not sure...”

“Falling behind on your reports? The Fire Lord ensured us you were keeping up.”

Zuko fumes. Almost literally. It’s beyond unfair the way that Ito is putting Sokka on the spot. And there’s nothing Sokka hates more than being made to feel incompetent. But Zuko can’t say anything—not if he doesn’t want to be accused by his own council of playing favourites and lying. 

“Enough,” says Aang. “Sokka’s injured and still in recovery. What he does or doesn’t do is no concern of yours.”

And, with Aang’s word, the subject is dropped. Zuko thinks he should really have Aang around more often. Maybe he can get the Sages to beg off the marriage arrangements too. 

Zuko grinds his back molars together. He’s supposed to be the Fire Lord. But he can’t even have lunch with his friends without someone trying to turn it into a political game. He’s so tired of it all. Under the table, he curls his hand into a fist, flexing out all of his pent up anger. 

Zuko jolts with surprise—something brushes the skin of his fist. Someone. 

Next to him, Sokka gives him a half-smile. “It’s alright,” Sokka says, low enough that only Zuko can hear.

Nimble fingers coax Zuko’s hand out of its clenched fist. Sokka squeezes and rubs a circle on the back of his hand with his thumb. 

Zuko simply nods. His heartbeat falls from its quick thunder. “Thank you.”

_ Thank you.  _

* * *

Once again, Sokka wonders how his life got so strange. When he was young, he spent most of his days lobbing snowballs at Katara (and getting his fair share of snow in his face right back). He hunted. He helped Gran Gran and his dad with chores. He played with the older boys when they’d let him tag along. 

Never in his life did he expect to be a war hero, living in the Fire Nation capital, with the Avatar (who is more or less his brother-in-law) asking if he could come to his healing session. 

Sokka’s gotten used to rolling with the strangeness. “Sure,” he said to Aang after lunch. “Why not?”

But as he’s stepping into the small pool of water, Sokka finds himself wanting to disappear under the gaze of both his sister and Aang. He feels like some sort of experiment. 

Aang seems to sense his discomfort. “It’s alright, Sokka,” he says. “I’m just here to see if there’s another way to come at this. We’ve got to keep our minds open to the possibilities.” 

“Sure thing,” Sokka says with a sigh and lowers himself into the water. The coolness is a welcome reprieve from the oppressive heat of the day. 

As usual, the water washes over him with the familiar tension. Sokka lets his mind roll blank--the way he’s been trying to do when he meditates. But even as he pushes away his fears and anxieties and how uncomfortable he is in the heat, he can’t completely let go of the fact that Aang is here now. It’s the first face that’s both new and old he’s seen in a month. 

Sokka’s mind drifts back to that first memory he got back. Child’s laughter, high and light. A strange blue glow and a skyward beam that splits solid ice in two. Aang and Appa. And a wave of fear and panic so severe that Sokka feels it settle into his bones. 

He fights against jolting upright. A surge of pain arcs from his head down his spine, but Sokka ignores it. There’s something there. He can feel it. If he only pushes past this block…

Sokka’s world splits in two. It’s as if the sun rose in a fraction of a second instead of its natural and gradual arc. Sokka remembers not only finding Aang but coming back to the village with him after. 

Sokka remembers ash. Black snow. His lungs filling with that heavy scent. 

He remembers the hull of the boat on the horizon. The fear and panic washing over him--there were no men at home anymore. They were entirely defenceless against the Fire Nation. Against the military that left his village a shadow of its former vibrancy. 

Sokka remembers isolating himself in a tent. Smearing the war-paint on his face alone. His father should have been the one to do it, as tradition dictated. But that wasn’t an option then. 

Sokka remembers standing alone on the wall. His heart hundred against the bones of his chest. If it weren’t for the hide mittens, his club would’ve certainly slipped from his hands due to the sheen of sweat. 

He remembers the military ship churning apart the defence wall as if it were nothing. Chunks of snow and ice cascaded around him. A metal gangplank coming down towards the defenceless villagers. 

Sokka remembers gathering his courage and racing forward. A horse yell knocked loose in his throat. He raised his club and--

And a soldier knocked him away as if he were nothing. 

But he wasn’t a soldier. He was their leader. 

He was Zuko.

Sokka snaps up, his mind burning as if it were covered in bolts of electricity. Zuko attacked his village. Zuko pushed Gran Gran. Zuko wanted to capture Aang. With blades of flames, Zuko attacked  _ him.  _

“Sokka, breathe!” 

He blinks the water from his eyes. Katara’s eyes are wide in concern, her hand rests on his back to support him. 

“You didn’t tell me,” he snaps. 

“What?”

“Zuko! The Fire Lord! He attacked us.”

Katara hesitates. “Do you think I’d be here if he hadn’t changed?”

“He tried to kill Aang!” Sokka sputters. 

“Technically, he only wanted to capture me. I don’t think killing me was ever on his list--”

“Not helping.” Katara glares at Aang. 

Sokka’s heart won’t calm down. His stomach churns and flips. 

“Zuko’s changed, Sokka. It took me a long time to forgive him too. But he’s on our side. He helped end the war.”

“I know, I know.” Sokka pinches his nose. His head still burns. Nothing makes sense. How could that Zuko be the same one he’d comforted at lunch? “I need time,” he whispers. 

But he needs more than that. This world--it’s too strange. It’s wrought with politics and negotiations and courtly nuances that Sokka doesn’t understand. He doesn’t even know the palace, let alone what rests outside of its gilded gates. 

Sokka swallows, his mouth dry. “I want to go home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to yell at me now


	13. Chapter 13

Katara’s head hurts. In retrospect, it has been hurting for a long time—the past month, at the very least—but now it peaked from a steady but low-grade ache into a full-blown migraine. 

“I can’t do it.” Laying on the bed in her room, Katara drapes her forearm over her eyes to block out the stream of light pouring in. 

Aang squeezes her free hand. Once. Twice. Three times. “You can, I know it.” He presses his lips into the back of her hand. “Besides, it’s not forever. Just a few months at most.”

Katara sighs and sits up. Her hair must be wild. She hardly slept last night and didn’t bother fixing her braided bun; now, she must’ve made it worse. “I know,” she whispers. “But what if I can’t do it? I mean, as dense as Sokka can be, he was fantastic at his job.”

Because that was it—the heart of her fear: failing as the temporary Southern Ambassador. 

With Sokka going home, they needed someone to do it until he either felt up to it again (which Katara wondered if he ever would) or they found a suitable full-time replacement. There were members of her tribe that were brilliant and wonderful, but few of them would ever want to commit to spending a few months out of the year in the Fire Nation, let alone moving there full-time.

“I just wish you could stay with me,” she says to Aang. 

Aang sighs and leans in toward her. “I know. I wish I could be with you too. I mean, a few days together is hardly enough after a month apart.”

“And months apart ahead of us.” 

Aang nods slowly. “Yeah.” He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to. Katara knows what he’s thinking: there is no other choice. Sokka leaving his post and returning home is going to cause an uproar. In the letters she sent to their dad, Katara may have downplayed the extent of Sokka’s injuries and she’s certain that Sokka didn’t admit the full truth either. If he had, Gran Gran or Dad would’ve been knocking down the palace gates by now. 

But Sokka arriving back home with his memories scrambled is another matter. Though relations have improved, there’s no shortage of resentment for the Fire Nation that still lingers in the South. Undoubtedly, there’d be questions whether Sokka’s accident was really an accident or an ‘accident’. But if he arrives with the Avatar… well, that will speak for Zuko and the nation. No one is going to openly argue with Aang. Even if there are some quiet mumblings. 

Aang reaches forward and brushed a strand of hair plastered to her cheek away. “We’ll get through this. After all, I’m the Avatar,” he says with a smirk. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Katara snorts into the collar of his robe. “Don’t go poking the spirits like that.” 

“I won’t, I won’t.” He gives her an encouraging smile. “But we can get through this. We’ve been through worse. You’re so smart and caring, Katara. You’re going to make an excellent ambassador.” 

“At least I’ll save the council from having to listen to terrible puns every ten minutes.”

“That’s the spirit.” 

Katara takes a deep and heavy breath. “I just feel like I should be with him. I—I can’t help feeling like this is my fault.”

“Hey—hey. No, it’s not. Those memories...well, they’re a part of Sokka. They were bound to come up sooner or later, with or without your help. Sokka needs to acknowledge them and make his peace with Zuko’s past and how he overcame it. He forgave him once before. I’m sure your brother can find it in himself to see the lengths Zuko went to to prove he’s committed to peace. 

“And there are great healers in the South who can help him. You trained them yourself, Katara. I’d trust any of them with my life.”

“So would I,” Katara says without hesitation. “I just...I just feel like I should be doing more.”

“We’re both doing as much as we can.”

Katara nods, finding her throat too tight to form any real words. 

“Take care of yourself while you’re here, okay?” Aang says. “I need you to promise me that.”

Again, Katara nods. “You better write to me every day.”

“The messenger hawk is going to be sick of my face by the time I come back to you.”

* * *

  
  


It was Aang who told Zuko, in the end. Zuko supposes that was a small mercy. Aang with his cool and calm voice. Aang who’d dealt with dozens of volatile political situations before his 18th birthday. Aang who could speak as if the whole world made sense, even if he was just as confused as everyone else. 

Zuko sat alone in his chambers, numb and distant from everything around him. Aang promised Sokka would come and see him before they left. Sokka just needed some time. 

And, with this, Zuko feels just as helpless and lost and out of control as he did last month when his assistant came barreling into a meeting and told Zuko that Sokka had been in an accident. He fiddles with his hair and re-ties his topknot for the twelfth time of the day. His hair, at least, is one thing he can wrestle control over. Even if it doesn’t want to cooperate at the moment. 

Zuko throws his hands to his sides and stares at the red coiling pattern painted around the edges of the ceiling. He’d been so naive to believe that Sokka would really welcome him into his life, no questions asked. What had he expected? That those painful memories just wouldn’t exist anymore? 

No—the truth is that Zuko had hurt Sokka. Badly. And yes, Zuko was sixteen and misguided and angry at the world and trying to win the love of his father who had sent him on a wild goose chase around the world—but Zuko still hurt Sokka nonetheless. 

And Zuko had to live with that. 

He should’ve told Sokka straight up that they had a… complicated past. Maybe if he had, he could’ve avoided this pain now. But how could he have done that? Just gone up to Sokka all ‘hey, I know you like me but you should know that we actually met when I attacked your village’? There was no easy way around it. 

Sokka needed time. He needed space. Zuko hoped that was all. 

Because there is nothing he can do to fix this in an instant. He can’t tell Sokka to stay, no matter how much he wants to collapse on the floor of his room and beg Sokka for one more day together. He’d give anything for one more lazy morning, for one more sleepless night, one more quiet glance across the room. 

But Sokka needs to find his own way. And Zuko can only hope that he’s still on Sokka’s path somewhere in the future, distant as it may be. 

Zuko huffs but nothing more than a thin coil of smoke roll upward. It’s been a long time since he let anger seep into his firebending. And even now, when he’s trying to let his pent up rage boil out, it’s not anger. Not really. 

Mostly, he’s hurt. The fire that burns inside his ribcage is nothing more than cooling embers. 

* * *

Sokka glances around his room. It’s still the same as it’s always been—blue banners and carved wood and high ceilings. It feels cool, now. Eerie. As if he’s seeing it for the first time again. 

Even the bed (giant and plush as it is) makes his skin crawl. Had he really traded home for this? Had he swapped the cedar smoked air and dim lamplight of Gran Gran’s cozy home for this giant, lonely chamber? Sokka wonders how he’s changed so much over the years. It seems that nearly every choice he’s made is the opposite of what he expected from himself. 

And he needs to figure it out. What does he want in life, anyway? With his memories starting to filter back, the thought of being the ambassador isn’t as daunting as it once was. He’s seen the world; he’s made tough choices. But he misses home: the plains of ice and snow that drift on forever to the horizon; the endless night of winter that showed the stars in all their glory; the midnight summer-sun that refused to sink, that would bleed into warm oranges and pinks over the crest of the world for hours before rising again; the warm furs; the laughs of his villagers; the tiring and familiar work on a fishing boat. 

He misses home like it’s a growing hollowness in his chest. 

For once, Sokka wants to feel grounded again. Like no one will pull the world out from under his feet at a moment’s notice. 

And, more than anything, he needs some space from the Fire Lord. From Zuko. Whoever he is. He can’t deny the fact that he truly  _ likes  _ the guy, which makes everything all the more confusing. It’d be easier if he hated him. But he doesn’t. Yet whenever Sokka imagines his raspy laugh and warmth and soft hair, the flash of their first meeting spirals through his head and the deep stake of fear pierces his ribcage. 

Sokka rubs at his eyes. It’s growing late. Aang and he are aiming to leave for the South early tomorrow morning and get to their first stop before lunch to beat the heat of midday. But he’s still not done packing. 

Truthfully, he doesn’t really know how. He’s never had this much  _ stuff  _ before. Back at home, it would’ve been simple to throw together his bed-roll, parka, his boomerang, and a few small trinkets into a bag and leave. But now? There’s an entire shelf full of books he hasn’t even so much as looked at yet, let alone decided which ones are worth taking and which ones can stay here. 

Sokka sighs and tosses a thin blue tunic into his open trunk. He probably won’t wear it at home anytime soon (the short summer will be nearly over by the time he’s home) but he doesn’t have a clue how long he’ll be staying. Besides, he is somewhat strapped for Water-Tribe clothes. In his wardrobe, half of it is untouched greens and reds. It felt too strange and unfamiliar to wear them while he was here and there’s definitely no point in hauling them back home. Sokka fills his arms with the red silks and drops them on a side-table—he’ll have to ask Katara if there’s a charity he can drop them off at before he and Aang leave. 

Sokka bites his lip. Tomorrow, he’ll actually be leaving. For the first time in a long time, he’ll see the world from outside the palace walls. From his maps, he knows that Caldera city sits in the caldera of an ancient volcano. From some of the higher rooms of the palace, he’s caught a glimpse of the dark rock edges cropped up against the blue sky. But for the rest of the city, he’s never seen it. At least, he doesn’t remember it. And beyond the city and the edge of the volcano, there’s a sea that Katara’s told him is impossibly blue and warm. 

Sokka’s head prickles with excitement. The possibilities of what’s waiting for him are endless. He feels like he’s eight years old again, and his dad just promised to take him hunting far past the edge of their village. Maybe, Sokka thinks, maybe there’s some part of him that’s always craved adventure, even before he could put his finger on what that desire to keep exploring actually was. 

Sokka throws a forest green tang suit into his trunk (just in case) and turns back to the open doors. With his wardrobe nearly empty, he can see straight to the back. A few of his parka sit folded at the bottom, looking a little worse for wear. But dusty and thin as they are, he’ll need them. That’s one thing he can count on in the South—cold weather. 

As Sokka hauls them up to drop in his trunk, he realizes something’s not right. The parkas are making a faint crinkling sound. Like paper. In his confusion, Sokka lets the bundle unfold in his hands. 

Dozens of sheets of paper, all folded into neat quarters, drift to the ground and scatter over the wood of the floor. Sokka bends down, picks up the paper nearest to his feet, and unfolds the creases. He flattens the bumps of the paper with his palm against his thigh. 

_ Dear Sokka, _ it reads. 

_ I’m not sure if you’ve even gotten the last letter I wrote to you yet. But I couldn’t wait to tell you this—the cherry blossom bloom started today! I was hoping you’d be here to see it, but I guess we’ll have to wait until next year. It’s so beautiful, you know? The trees turn pink and the whole palace smells like fine perfume. Even Azula admitted it’s beautiful. She says this is her favourite time of year here, too.  _

_ Anyway. I just thought you should know. I’ve been thinking a lot about what you asked me. I hope you’ve been thinking just as much about what I asked you. I don’t need an answer anytime soon; I don’t want to rush you. Just know that I can’t think of anything better than having you here.  _

_ Love, _

_ Zuko _

_ P.S. I loved your haiku. _

_ P.P.S. I’ve included a sample of Uncle’s latest blend. He says it’s inspired by the Water Tribes, but I’ll leave that up to your expert opinion.  _

Sokka runs his thumb along the wrinkled edge of the letter. He must’ve read it over and over again to leave the paper wrinkled the way that it is. He takes a shaky breath. The air in his room has never felt so warm and heavy. 

This is just one letter. The low light catches on the dozens more scattered over his floor, each looking just as well-loved as the last. 

_ Love, Zuko.  _ Sokka turns the phrase over in his head. It’s warm and familiar. 

It’s another way to come home. 


	14. Chapter 14

Sokka holds the letter in his hand, too stunned to even move. He’s read the letter before. He knows he had. In fact…

He read it back in the south by the waning light of an oil lantern in his igloo. That night, he was so exhausted from a day of fishing that he could hardly keep his eyes open—his heavy lids kept dragging low. But he read the letter, and then he read it again, and then once more after he washed and slipped on his nightclothes. 

Sokka blinks at the memory. Unlike the other fragments, which have come back as harsh jolts or nonsensical fragments or slips of images, this one is natural. It’s _right._

Still on the floor, he scrambles to reach for another letter. Any letter. 

_Sokka,_ this one reads. 

_No—you can’t die of a stubbed toe. At least, I’m pretty sure you can’t. Why are you asking me, anyway? Your sister is probably no more than a five-minute walk away._

_Zuko_

Sokka sets it down and reaches for another. 

_Hey Sokka,_

_Sorry that this one is later than I wanted it to be. It’s a funny story, sort of. I was waiting for_ _your_ _letter, actually. I assumed it was delayed on account of the bad weather this week. It wasn’t until I sat down to read some reports from Fire Nation dignitaries that I realized the clerk had sorted your letter in with the business mail. Yeah. Sorry. It’s been sitting on my desk for a week while I kept waiting for it._

_Anyway, I’m glad that the rebuilding is going well. I can’t wait to see the new school next time I’m there (even though I might not be able to get to the South for a while). They’re lucky to have you, you know._

_All the best,_

_Zuko_

_P.S. Thanks for your drawing of a whale-shark (?) it made my day._

Sokka sets the letter down. His breath hitches heavy in his chest. He remembers. He remembers. He grasps for another paper and hopes that it will tell him what he already knows. 

_Dear Sokka,_ reads this one. 

_I messed it up. I can’t believe it. The advice you gave me was so good and I went into that meeting repeating exactly what I wanted to say in my head. But, when it came time for me to speak in favour of the reparation act, I froze. Fuck me! It was only for a half of a second, but the vulture-snakes saw my weakness. It should’ve been straightforward. But now we’re at a stalemate and the council adjourned with the bill not passed once again. At least it hasn’t been struck down, but I hate that it’s sitting in limbo. I just want things to move!_

_Ugh. Sorry for the rant. I was so sure it would go well…_

_Hope you’re having a better day than me,_

_Zuko_

Sokka brushes his hand against his scalp. He remembers this. He remembers the advice he gave Zuko—speak from the heart, practice, have faith in yourself, and practice again. 

Sokka lets out a shaky breath. The stress wrought into his back eases. These letters, everything here, it all makes _sense._ It’s as if his life drew into clear focus: writing letters by the lamp; fishing and hunting and building in the South; hauling his pack into a shelf of a steamship; stepping into the gritty black sand of the beach of Ember Island. 

It’s natural. This is his life. This is how it’s supposed to be. 

Sokka shifts through the letters, pushing the papers away until he finds the one with the tea stain blossoming across the back. He knows what this one says. 

He reads it just to be sure. 

_Dear Sokka,_

_I’m not gonna waste any words: I miss you. A lot. More than I thought I would, especially since you’ve only been gone two months. And these letters, they’re great, but it’s not the same as seeing your smile._

_Toph told me to play this cool, but seeing as she still wrinkles her nose whenever she hears a love poem, I’ve elected to ignore her advice. (She also says hi, by the way. And she wants me to remind you that you owe her two silver pieces from a Pai Sho game last month.)_

_Anyway. Here it is. I love you. A lot. I have for a while and I was too stupid to say it before you left and I couldn’t wait until you're back._

Sokka blinks, his eyes warm and tired and blurry. The letter goes on for another page, but he can’t get past this paragraph. _I love you_. He reads it again to be sure it’s real. 

_I love you… I have for a while._

Those words make his heart stutter more than he remembers.

* * *

It’s much too early for someone to be knocking on her door. Katara groans and rolls over, hoping it’s just some lost servant who will realize he has the wrong room and scuttle off, and she can keep sleeping for another few hours. 

But the knock sounds again. 

Aang, thanks to the Spirits, shifts and rises. “I got it,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. 

Katara nods (or at least she tries to) and pulls the soft, thin blanket up to her chin. The Fire Nation knows luxury, she’ll give them that. After the last month she needs to relax. 

But there’s voices coming from the doorway. Aang and… Sokka? Katara sits up, rubs her eyes, and tries to catch up with whatever is happening. Sure, Sokka and Aang were planning to leave early, but dawn is still a few hours away. Katara untangled herself from the sheets, grabbed a robe, and shuffled over to the doorway. 

“Sokka? Is everything alright?”

Sokka smiles. In the beam of moonlight filtering in through the hallway window, Katara sees that his clothes are rumpled—he’s wearing the same thing he wore yesterday—and bags are sunken under his eyes. In his hand, he holds a bundled of folded paper. 

“Katara,” he says, “I remember.”

It takes a moment for the meaning to sink in. “What?”

“I remember. I remember everything—“

Katara slams against him and hugs him tightly. “Sokka.” She can’t think of what else to say. 

“I know,” he says softly. “I couldn’t have without your help.”

Katara wipes her eyes. At some point, Aang had rested his hand on her back. “How did Zuko take it?”

Sokka hesitates. 

“You haven’t told him?”

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits, somewhat shyly. “I went to tell him—really! But I got to the hallway outside his room… and I just froze.”

“Sokka…” Katara says gently. “You don’t have to worry, you know. Whatever you say, I’m sure it’ll be good. There’s not a wrong way to tell him.”

He sighs. “I’m not sure there’s a right way, either. I haven’t exactly been… the easiest to be around this past month.”

“You were hurt,” Aang says. “You weren’t yourself. Go to Zuko and tell him—just be honest and speak from the heart.” 

Sokka nods at Aang’s advice. “I—thank you. I shouldn’t wait.”

Katara agrees. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Or later today. Do what you need to do.” 

Sokka is off before she can say much else. 

“I’m glad they’re finally making up.”

Katara laces her hand through Aang’s fingers. “About that… Aang, I need to tell you something. Sokka and Zuko—well, they’re more than friends.”

Aang chuckles dryly. “Katara, I’ve suspected they were together since the Winter Solstice last year.” 

“What? And you never thought to mention it to me?”

“I thought you knew!” Aang raises his hands defensively. “I thought it was just that kinda thing we both knew but weren’t going to acknowledge it until they did! I mean, have you seen the way they look at each other?”

Katara crosses her arms. He’s right, she knows. Whenever Sokka and Zuko look at each other, it’s like they’re ignoring the rest of the room. 

* * *

Zuko hasn’t slept. He couldn’t if he tried, he thinks, but he hasn’t even bothered to try. 

At first, he stayed awake waiting for Sokka to come to say goodbye. For hours he paced around his room, trying to find anything to distract himself until he heard the dreaded knock. 

The knock never came. 

And as the hours dragged on from night to early morning, it became clear that the knock was never going to come, so Zuko slipped out of his room and instructed his guards not to follow. A night walk always helps him clear his head (and the guards aren’t too fussed as long as he’s not leaving the palace). 

But tonight? Zuko’s been out wandering aimlessly for the better part of an hour and he still feels that he’s no better off. Every time he tries to distract himself—whether it’s by staring at the ripples on the pond or smelling the fire-lilies or plucking a ripe apricot from the tree—it doesn’t work. After a few minutes, his thoughts inevitably drift back to Sokka. Maybe, Zuko thinks, maybe he could bury himself in work. Just surround himself with stacks of drafted bills and reports and finance documents and read until his eyes glaze over and his brain melts. 

Zuko shakes his head and rises from the stone bench before he rubs a spot of grass to dirt under his heel. The gardener, Naoko, will skin him alive if he messes up her immaculate work—she won’t give a damn whether he’s a servant or the Fire Lord or even Agni herself. Besides, he should get some sleep. Even if it is just an hour, he really can’t afford to doze off during his military briefing in the afternoon. 

“Zuko!” Sokka calls. 

He snaps his head around—the garden, aside from himself, is empty. Has he really lost his mind? Imagining he heard Sokka’s voice?  
“Zuko!” Sokka calls again. 

And Zuko hasn’t lost it. Sokka isn’t in the garden; he’s on the second level, leaning over the balcony. 

“Just wait right there,” he calls, “and I’ll be down in a minute.”

Zuko stands there. He doesn’t even nod. Sokka disappears inside and Zuko still can’t bring himself to react. After not hearing a word from him for the past two days he just shows up in the garden? 

Desperately, Zuko tries to fix his hair with his fingers. It’s the only thing he can think to do—make sure that it stays flat. He pulls out a tangle near one end and curses himself for not brushing it out carefully. If Sokka’s coming to say goodbye, he should at least look like he hasn’t been moping around in his room all day. 

But before he has time to do much else, Sokka’s in the garden. He jogs toward Zuko and Zuko can hear his breath catching. He must’ve sprinted down from upstairs. 

“It’s good to see you,” Zuko says quietly. “I’m glad I get to talk to you before you leave.”

Sokka looks at him and turns his head slightly as if he’s trying to make out what to think of Zuko. He looks tired too, Zuko realizes. Red rims his eyes, making the blue look even more vivid. The end of his wolf-tail is slipping. And he’s doing what he always does when he’s too deep in his own thoughts—he’s biting his lip. 

“What is it?”

“Zuko...I remember.” 

Zuko’s heart slams into his ribcage. It’s hammering so fast that he needs to force himself to take a breath. “You remember?”

Sokka nods. He steps forward and carefully takes Zuko’s hand. “I do. I remember everything.” The wind whistles through the garden; it carries the soft scent of the flowers and blows a loose strand of Sokka’s hair against his cheek.

A chill races down Zuko’s spine. “You do?”

He nods. “As much as I normally would. There are a few things that are still hazy, but I think that’s just natural.”

Zuko’s chest tightens. “Good.”

“I missed you.”

Zuko, without thinking, wraps his arms around Sokka. “I missed you too.” Zuko wants to say more, he wants to say everything, but he can’t. His throat is dry. He’s dizzy. He’s never been one for words unless he can write them out. 

“How?” he finally manages to ask. 

Sokka pulls away and reaches into the inner pocket of his tunic. He pulls out a wad of folded paper. 

“Are those my letters?” Zuko can’t quite believe they’re real. “I told you to burn them after reading.”

Sokka smiles slyly. “Aren’t you glad I didn’t?” 

And Zuko is. He lifts his head and brings his lips toward Sokka, and Sokka meets him in the middle. He’s soft and warm and not holding back. The heat of his mouth slides down the side of Zuko’s neck. 

“Remember this?” Zuko asks.

“Mhmm.” Sokka’s hand cups his head. 

“Do you remember what comes next?”

“I think I might need you to jog my memory.” 

Before Zuko melts completely under his touch, Sokka pulls away. “We can keep going in a minute. I need to tell you this first, though. I’m still going home.

“Just for a visit,” he adds, before Zuko’s heart stops completely. “I need to see my family again. Get my head on straight. But I’m coming back, Zuko. It’ll just be a few weeks and then I’ll be back here with you.”

Zuko nods. “I need to tell you something, too.” Zuko takes a breath and works up the words he should’ve said long ago. “When you’re back...well, I’m ready.”

His eyebrows jolt upward. “Ready?”

“I am. I think it’s time we announce our relationship to the nation.” 

Sokka’s grin is wide and his face glows in the moonlight. “You’re sure you’re ready?”

“I’m not sure if I ever will be, not 100%. But I love you, Sokka. And I don’t want to keep this a secret anymore.”

Sokka reaches up and runs his thumb along Zuko’s jawline. “I agree. But I don’t think we should tell everyone _right_ when I get back.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “I believe you promised me a vacation on Ember Island once the education decree was passed. And it passed.” He leans forward, resting his forehead on Zuko’s. “We deserve a week or two of peace.”

Zuko agrees with him. How could he not?

He kisses Sokka again in the moonlight. If he could freeze this moment in time, he would. Sokka in his arms. A soft breeze. The sweet scent of fire-lilies. Cricket-bugs humming in the distance. 

But he can’t freeze it—not forever. Their lives, their relationship, will keep moving forward. So Zuko moves to the next best option; he commits it to memory. Everything from the grand trees to Sokka to the minutiae of the garden. 

He swears to himself that he won’t forget. And, even if he does, he can count on Sokka to fill in the details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And.... That's it folks!! Well, I think I'm gonna write an epilogue but it'll be like just 500 words or so. Anyway, thanks to all you wonderful people who read and left me the sweetest comments!! ily!! 
> 
> I also just finished another Zukka fic called 'No Quiet Life' if you want to check it out. I had a lot of fun with the writing in that one but its plot is looser and it's kinda just about the start of their relationship. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr @snailwriter if you want drop in and ask me questions about whatever. I'm happy to chat about anything or give writing advice!
> 
> Anyway. Thanks again y'all. Stay safe and healthy out there. <3


	15. Epilogue

In the end, they don’t make it to Ember Island. 

This is no tragedy. 

By the time that Sokka’s finished visiting his family in the South—and wormed his way out of Kanna’s care and Hakoda’s watchful eyes—and when Zuko finally squared away his work as Fire Lord, it’s well into the rainy season. Even if they _did_ go, they would’ve spent their vacation stuck inside. And while they both agreed that there were some benefits to that situation, in the end they decided against it. After everything, they needed space. They needed to breathe. 

_Dear Sokka,_ Zuko wrote, _I have a better idea._

In the end, they met each other halfway. The place is called Haibin—a seaside resort in the Southwest corner of the Earth Kingdom. In the summer, the place crawls with Earth Kingdom nobility and rich merchants. They crowd the beach, crowd the restaurants, crowd the inns, crowd the streets of the small town. 

In autumn, the place empties out. With the swathes of tourists gone, the town hums with the locals. Stores close early. Some of the inns close down entire wings. 

Sokka and Zuko love it. There’s no one around to stare at them. They eat at a cafe in peace. They sip coffee on the balcony of their room and look at the ocean—the waves higher and more rough than in summer. At night, they tangle together, hands on the curve of each other’s hips, lips on the lines of the other’s collar bones, fingers in hair, heads tossed back with pleasure. When they wake, they watch the sun rise out the window and hold each other close under their bed sheets.

In the afternoon, they walk along the shore; smooth stones under their feet. Overhead, gull-flies call. The air is cool and thick with the smell of salt and seaweed. 

At one point in their daily walk, both of them wrapped in light furs on top and their pants pushed to their knees, Zuko jumps up on a washed up log. He walks the length, arms out, teetering with each step. When he reaches the end, he jumps off and throws his head back, expecting to see Sokka behind him doing the same. 

Instead, Sokka stands there, his head cocked and a wide grin across his face. 

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Does there have to be something?”

Zuko frowns. “You’ve got that look.”

Sokka scoffs. “I do not.”

 _You do,_ Zuko starts to say, but before he can, a wave washes high up the beach and washes around his mid-calves. The cold is a sudden and unpleasant shock. Zuko tenses and shudders until the waves washes back out, pulling the coarse sand and shells with it. 

Sokka lets out a laugh, high and light. “Come on,” he says, “race you to the boulder.”

Before Zuko can reply, Sokka’s running ahead, his head thrown up to the sky. The sun shines brightly, even though it’s heat is distant. Zuko starts into a sprint after him, his feet sinking slightly in the sand and his face stinging with the cool air. 

This, he thinks, this will be a memory one day. He’ll hold it close to his chest and never let it go. 

_I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?_

Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood


End file.
